All and the lonely hearts
by sureaintmebabe
Summary: Post-The Empty Hearse. John was glad to have his best friend back, he truly was. He just had to deal with the sudden urge he had sometimes to actually kill Sherlock himself. The sudden urge to ask him to please, never leave again. It was all making him mad. And he had a wedding to plan.
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone (:  
This fic begins in an AU in which The Sign of the Three never happened. (Aww, I know, right?) But I wanted to try my hand at rebuilding this mess they threw our way.  
It's going to take a while.  
I hope you enjoy the feels and come along for the ride.

I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.

If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr

I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.

~ ~ ~  
This chapter:  
_John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years._

* * *

John had been sitting in the living room of 221B for more than half an hour. Not that Sherlock had acknowledged him in any way.

They hadn't exactly being around each other that much since Sherlock had come back from the dead with that terrible impression of a French waiter that left John speechless and with a torrent of unanswered questions.

From the moment John had seen Sherlock again, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance of resisting him any more than the first time. But he also knew that the git would be completely insensitive to any outburst he still felt the need to have. And, oh, he did feel it every now and again, when Sherlock's face popped up in the news, or in the papers, or when thinking about Sherlock at the most ungodly hours, especially at night, losing his sleep over something he couldn't change.

He couldn't change what had happened, he knew that. And even if Sherlock's return had been so challenging, John had to face the fact that being able to be in his presence again was still much better than visiting his grave and feeling his throat close and his eyes sting with the unshed tears he tried to keep to himself.

Right now, sitting on the sofa, flipping through the newspaper, listening to Sherlock's violin, John could sense all the contentment he should be feeling but wasn't able to for reasons he couldn't quite face yet. The slight curve of his own lips was a typical reaction to Sherlock's playing. His mind was at constant war to accept what happened, but he couldn't deny that he had always fitted Sherlock's life and 221B perfectly. It was an instinctive reaction, more than any sign of peace of mind, that made him smile while observing Sherlock's movements on the violin.

John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years. He had a new home, a lovely fiancée, a job that wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, but that paid the bills and had helped him to find his way back to his career. John wasn't a detective. He had had to remind himself every day for the past two years that he was, indeed, a doctor, and that that was the job for him, not running around, chasing suspects with a tall friend in a good coat. John had been almost exclusively Sherlock's doctor for all the time they had lived together. Almost a family doctor, a doctor of a family that consisted of John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. When Sherlock had shouted on the abandoned carriage that John had been a soldier as well, it had been a surprise. He hadn't forgotten, but he couldn't deny he had lost many hours of the previous months trying to forget and to adjust to the civilian life that was his reality now.

That exciting life wasn't his anymore. It had not been for quite some time. And the sooner John got used to it, the better it would be for him. Or so he expected.

John had had to readjust completely after Sherlock had died.

His gun wasn't in a drawer on his dresser anymore. The only way he had to know about crimes was to follow them through the media, like any other ordinary citizen. That's was his reality now: just a common person. He had had to accept it.

If he let his mind wander too much now, he would find memories that would certainly damage him more than he liked to think about. He had much to lose if he let Sherlock's madness take him over again just like that.

The doorbell ring snapped John out of his thoughts. He was surprised by the fact that Sherlock stopped playing and was now looking at him with narrowed eyes, holding his bow mid-air.

"Hadn't noticed I was here, had you?" John hid his sad smile with his cup of tea. He didn't know if Sherlock was so used to him that his mind still didn't compute his presence, or if he had got so used to being alone that he dismissed the possibility of another person being near him. John filed this thought together with the others he didn't wish to revisit.

Sherlock looked at him some more, and he was doing that thing again.

"Oh no, no, no. Stop giving me _The Look_," John sighed, refusing to admit that the sudden familiarity had brought a warmth he didn't recognize anymore.

Sherlock actually smirked, the bastard. "I have no idea of what you mean, John. I do hate when you talk in riddles."

Before John could say anything else, or could flip the cushion at Sherlock's head, Molly Hooper appeared at the door, holding a cooler in her right hand, awkwardly. She shifted from foot to foot, looking at John with a small smile that said a billion things John didn't want to address. He hated that Molly now always had that pained expression on her face when dealing with him, as if she was trying to apologize to him for helping Sherlock, for having his back when John hadn't even been given that option. But what he hated the most was how he couldn't forgive her, no matter how many times she silently tried to apologize. John suspected they would repeat the same dance for a long time.

"I brought what you needed," she said to Sherlock, who had already ripped the cooler from her hands and was taking it to the kitchen. Molly's flabbergasted expression made John cringe in sympathy for a second.

"Come on, Molly!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen, which made her cheeks colour an alarming shade of pink. She ran to the kitchen, giving John the sorry look once more and making his skin crawl.

John stood up from the sofa and paced to the window. He had no idea what the hell he was doing there. Mrs Hudson had called him earlier that day, saying that Sherlock had been restless without a case for days, making a mess out of the flat. She was worried that Sherlock had been spending too much time alone, and could be using cocaine again. Apparently she thought that being in Baker Street without John would mean a terrible change for Sherlock. She was obviously wrong.

And John didn't know about the cocaine, he couldn't know. Even with his medical background, John knew that Sherlock could fool any of them, apart from Mycroft. Sherlock had fooled John about being dead, he couldn't imagine any other lie Sherlock wouldn't tell him just for the fun of it.

Besides, John didn't know what he could do about it, even if it were true. He didn't live there anymore; he couldn't enter Sherlock's bedroom and search through his clothes, his sock index, and the pile of crap he kept in a corner of his room. John chuckled and shook his head. Again, memories tried to worm their way up to his head but he kept them at bay, reminding himself that for all he knew, Sherlock could have thrown everything away. John hadn't been in that bedroom for more than two years, and he didn't plan to be back there ever again.

He sent Mrs Hudson a text asking her when she would be back. She had gone to Tesco, probably to get Sherlock those damn biscuits he liked. John knew that she had given up the not-housekeeper policy long ago because Sherlock was now alone in the flat, and he couldn't be bothered with food or such trivialities. John refused to let himself worry about that. He wasn't Sherlock's babysitter, not anymore. It wasn't his job to tell him to eat, or to make him tea, or put him to bed when he had been drugged by a random dominatrix. Sherlock had been fine for two years, he visibly didn't need John to look after him.

John clutched his phone in his hand and decided he should go home. He shot a quick message reassuring Mrs Hudson that Sherlock wasn't alone and turned from the window, without knowing if he should say goodbye to Sherlock and Molly. He stopped on his way to the door because Sherlock was there, looking at him strangely.

"What?" John asked, uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, reminding John of arguments that ended with him going out for some air. He tried to dismiss Mrs Hudson's voice asking him more than once about their _domestics_.

John felt wrong-footed, as if he had been caught trying to sneak out of the house. And that was the exact truth. He had been. "I'm going home. Mrs Hudson was worried, I just texted her. Now you have Molly," John stopped short, he didn't even know what he was trying to say. "I mean, Molly is here, so I'll just go," he finished in a hurry, putting on his coat.

"John," Sherlock said, simply.

John took a deep breath and tried to ignore the effect that his name in Sherlock's voice, right there in their living room – _Sherlock's _living room, John corrected himself – had always had on him. And apparently would always have. "Yes?"

Sherlock was looking at him intently, probably reading him like an open book. The attention that used to excite John, now unnerved him, made him worry that Sherlock would see things John no longer gave him the right to see.

"Molly was just delivering some feet," the detective said, and the corner of his lips turned up. "I don't need a handler. Mrs Hudson's concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

"Yes, right," John said, lamely, trying to shake off the feeling of being caught again. He would just go home, he decided. "Okay, then. I'll leave you to your feet."

"Do you have something planned?" Sherlock asked, abruptly, because that's how they were around each other now: Sherlock pretending he didn't know absolutely everything that John had going on in his life by simply looking at him, and John pretending he wasn't uncomfortable with the change. John didn't know if he should appreciate it, but he didn't. He felt betrayed and fooled, and he was getting very tired of that kind of feeling.

"You know I don't. You probably know my work schedule," John said, and it didn't come out as a compliment.

"You can stay," Sherlock said, then frowned. "Can you stay?"

"What for?" John asked, surprised.

"Just to-" Sherlock stopped to clear his throat. "Just to stay," he shrugged.

John wished he could say he didn't understand what Sherlock was on about, but he did. The familiarity that ran naturally through them even when they were unaware of it was like an invisible force pulling them together. He still felt it, though he'd been hiding from it. Sherlock may be a sociopath – and John had given up defending him – but John was sure that he could feel it, too.

_Could he stay?_, John asked himself. _Could he?,_ after everything that happened? Could he let his guard down and spend his afternoon at Sherlock's flat, remembering things he didn't want to, giving Sherlock the chance to slip in through the cracks in John's shell? He knew his vulnerability was visible even to the most emotionally crippled twat in the whole bloody planet. He shifted from foot to foot, looking at the carpet, flexing his hands inside his pockets.

"Please?" Sherlock asked, using those big eyes that didn't fool John for a second.

"Git," John said, which prompted a wide smile from Sherlock, one of those that John wished he could tell whether or not they were true. One of those who had once twinkled 'home' in bright lights inside John's head. "You're just going to work on the feet while I sit here, aren't you?"

Sherlock grinned. "It's for an experiment! I couldn't possibly wait."

John looked at the ceiling and smiled, feeling light headed. Something so small could mean the world to someone as shattered as he had been. "Go on then. I'll busy myself with the telly."

Turning back, John hesitated. He should sit in one of the armchairs, so he would be nearer the telly and could keep the volume down, but his legs were refusing to take those few steps. He didn't know what would be worse: sitting on the armchair that used to be his and remembering of the many times he sat there in front of Sherlock in companionable silence, or sitting on an undead man's chair.

"Sit," Sherlock said, impatiently. He had probably rolled his eyes. "On your chair."

"Not my chair anymore," John pointed out, unnecessarily. "I'll just have the couch," he said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. "Why wouldn't you want to sit on your armchair? It's there, it's yours, it's perfect for your back, it's near the telly. You sat there before."

"Not for a long time, I didn't."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. "You sat there on the 5th of November, John, do try to keep up."

"No, I didn't-" John interrupted himself, astonished. "Yes, I... I sat here before," he concluded, asking himself how that could be. Indeed he had barged into Sherlock's flat, opened the door without knocking, fluffed his – _not_ his, he reminded himself – union jack pillow and sat there, while Sherlock paced madly, babbling to himself about the train mystery. Just like that. Just... like _that_.

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "You're even more stupid than you were before. It's your armchair, it'll always be your armchair. Now sit," he said, pointing to the chair, arrogantly – one could trust Sherlock to be a prick even when trying to do something nice.

John sat because _how could he not? _Sherlock had an insufferable smirk on his lips. John didn't have any other option at hand, so he flung the union jack cushion on his head. "Piss off."

It served him right.

**00oo00oo00**

John opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the pain on his neck. He rubbed his face, and yawned, taking in the strange surroundings. He was at Baker Street and that was a strange view for him. For a moment he didn't know what had been a dream, and what had been real life. The noises coming from the kitchen reminded him that Sherlock was back, experimenting on feet just four feet away.

He cracked his neck and stood up, stretching his back. The telly was still on, so he turned it off and decided that if he was going to stay at Baker Street for a few more hours, he could very well make himself some tea. He was tired of pretending he didn't know his way around it.

He entered the kitchen and was greeted by the image of Sherlock Holmes hunched over his microscope, of course. John had been in the kitchen before, he knew, but he couldn't help the sudden throat-clogging feeling that reached him every time he found himself being reacquainted with his previous life. Once more, he thought about how everything had seemed normal, comfortable when he had been there working side by side with Sherlock again. It had been like he was home, which only served to prove him that he shouldn't let his guard down like that. Sherlock had an unique way of getting to John, a particular pull that John had never encountered before and knew he never would.

He shook his head to dismiss the cloud of thoughts and busied himself with putting the kettle on and getting the mugs and the sugar from the cupboard. He hesitated before deciding to open the fridge to look for milk. He suddenly hated not knowing if they had milk or not. _Not they_, he thought. _ . _

Oddly enough, the fridge had an ordinary amount of food and John was not greeted by any severed heads, which he chose to take as an improvement. He made Sherlock a cup of tea, without registering the muscle memory of it.

"Yes, I know, muriatic acid," Sherlock said, out of the blue.

John knew it wasn't meant for him, so he just ignored and finished storing everything in its proper place.

"Yes, from hydrochloric acid! Shut up, John," Sherlock said, in a hushed tone that made John turn over to face him. John thought he might have been noisy, but Sherlock wasn't really talking to him. At least not to the real him.

John walked over and put the mug on the table with more force than it was necessary, trying to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. John was feeling particularly bold and didn't give a damn about annoying Sherlock in the middle of an experiment. He had just been told to shut up, anyway, he could pretend he had a reason to be pissed.

Sherlock seemed completely lost. He looked at John and then at the mug beside his microscope. And then at John again. And at the tea again. And at John.

"You are here," Sherlock said, sounding small, and John hated, hated that he couldn't trust any of it.

"Yes, I am," John answered, indicating Sherlock's mug. "Drink it."

Sherlock tried to act nonchalant, but took the mug, anyway. He sipped the tea and closed his eyes. John liked to think he was savouring the first tea John had made him after everything, and the fact that John would never forget how he took his tea.

"So," John began. "Talking to me when I'm not here again?" And John asked himself why he felt a bit smug about it. Sherlock didn't look at him, and pretended he hadn't said a word. But John couldn't control the sour way his mind was taking. "Has it ever made any difference, me being here or not, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he didn't understand the question. His lips were parted as if he was waiting for his thoughts to come out of it at once. Of course he didn't understand, John was being silly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, simply.

"Right," John said, awkwardly, because he didn't even know why he had asked him that in the first place. "So, what are you working on?"

Sherlock began to tell him all about a mystery murder that had happened twenty years ago and had never been solved. He told him about how those feet were helping him to discover where the victim had been before she was killed and John listened to everything attentively.

Two hours later, Sherlock had finished his experiment and they were sat at the kitchen table, looking afraid of disrupting the air that had favoured the quiet hours they had spent near each other. It had been more than they had done yet. It was at the same time warming and petrifying to John. A natural ambiguity of being around Sherlock, he supposed.

"Are you hungry? We could go to Angelo's," Sherlock said, strained.

John didn't know what to say. Going to Angelo's seemed much more than he could do at that moment, and even so, he wanted it, craved it. They would enter, Angelo would come and greet them by the door, he would hug Sherlock, tell him he had never believed the lies in the press, maybe he would even hug John and tell him he would fetch a candle for the table. John would tell him that he wasn't Sherlock's date, and it wouldn't make any difference. Yes, it was too much. He couldn't do that. It would open a Pandora box he knew he couldn't close. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Mary asking him about dinner. That was his life now, he had to remember.

"Maybe some other time," he told Sherlock, not looking at him and walking to the living room. Sherlock was right behind him. "Okay?" He asked, unnecessarily. Of course Sherlock was okay, he didn't need John to babysit him. John felt idiotic.

Sherlock, though, smiled as if he knew something John didn't. Nothing new there. "Yes, all right. Some other time."

"Right," John said. "I'll see you, then."

John run down the stairs without looking back. Being afraid around Sherlock was not something he was used to, and it still left a foul taste in his mouth. He would have dinner with Mary, that was his life now, that was his choice. Mary.

John felt his phone buzzing again and took it out of his pocket.

**Yes, I'll see you, John. –SH **

_Bugger_.


	2. Chapter 2

**I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.**

**If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr**

**I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.**

**See the end of the chapter for more notes.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

John cleaned the sole of his shoes on the doormat. As soon as he opened the door, he could smell homemade cooking. Mary seldom cooked, so it made him smile. He hung up his coat and took of his shoes, letting his toes feel the cold floor and letting his new home ground him. It wasn't exactly his new home, but after spending the afternoon at Baker Street, everything else seemed out of place.

John seemed out of place. Or rather felt out of place. How lucky of a guy was he that now nowhere felt right enough, he asked himself, sighing and heading to the kitchen.

Mary was peeking into the oven. The rare sight made a new burst of warmth rush through John and he was glad for it.

"What is all this?" He asked, hugging Mary from behind and inhaling her familiar scent. He gave her a kiss right behind her left ear.

She grinned and turned over to give him a proper kiss. She tasted like the wine she was having while cooking, and her cheeks had a lovely pinkness to them. "I felt like cooking," she said simply, as if it explained everything.

"Okay," John said and decided to leave her be. "How was your day?"

Mary poured John a glass of wine and offered to him. "Very good. I met the florist, and met Kathy to gossip about my dress. You know, wedding stuff," she smirked.

"Oh," John said, trying to remember if he was supposed to have gone with her to meet the florist. He did remember something about that. _But wasn't it the following week?_

"Don't worry," she told him, while caressing the frown that had appeared between his brows. "I took care of it. You would have been bored by it. _I_ was bored by it!"

John thanked the gods above for Mary, but wished he had gone anyway. It was their wedding, he wanted to have a proper part in it. Mary was smiling at him. "What?" He asked, sipping his wine and sitting on the chair that was nearer her.

"As long as you are there to say 'yes,' it's all good," she laughed.

John laughed, but it seemed strange in his own ears. He had asked her to marry him, he should have been there to meet the florist. It was no use asking for her hand and leaving everything for her to sort out. "I'll be there."

While Mary finished the cooking, John busied himself setting up the table. Since she was cooking, the occasion asked for their finest plates and silverware. Not for the first time that day, John knew that he should be feeling a contentment that was right in front of him, but he couldn't grasp it. He blamed it on the strange day he had had. Being around Sherlock for that long, being around his previous life that long, was certainly enough to leave him unbalanced. It was understandable. He decided he shouldn't beat himself up about it.

Everything would fit in the end, he hoped. His previous life, his new life. Never mind both things couldn't seem more unfitting to John if they tried. He would make it work, he told himself. _He would make it work._

"I will take a shower," Mary said, snapping John out of his thoughts and making him cringe by the fact that he had just zoned out.

"Okay," he said, trying to pretend his mind had been into it all along. "Should I keep an eye at whatever it is that you're cooking?"

"I set the timer," she said, already walking out of the kitchen and heading to their bedroom. "Don't eat without me!"

John laughed. "I'll try!"

While listening to the sounds of the shower, John went to their bedroom and changed into his pyjama bottoms, choosing a random old t-shirt to go with it. He felt drained, even though he hadn't really done anything all day. He had sat all afternoon at Baker Street, sipping cups of tea and trying not to get swallowed by the walls and the carpet. Now, sat on his bed, he thought about his old one, the one that had been a flight of stairs from him the whole afternoon, emanating a menacing cloud of unresolved tension. He had once been happy there. He knew he had been. Maybe Sherlock's coming back should have made him feel lighter about all the dread he had felt for two years, but it hadn't. John found it awfully unfair that having his friend back didn't erase all the suffering John had been through.

Maybe there was something wrong with him, he thought. Maybe he wasn't a nice person, maybe he didn't have it in him to forgive and forget. Mrs Hudson seemed so happy having Sherlock around again. Lestrade seemed over them moon at having his favourite consultant to help him again. People that had been tricked just like him, but could adjust to Sherlock's presence in a way John couldn't. He just couldn't.

But then again, _how could he?_ John had had a completely different experience of Sherlock Holmes than those that Lestrade or even Mrs Hudson had. When Sherlock had died – no, when Sherlock had _left_, John corrected himself – Lestrade had lost a colleague, maybe a friend. Mrs Hudson, for all her love of Sherlock, had lost a presence that she had had now and then, during tea time or while randomly visiting to straighten things up and remind them that she wasn't their housekeeper.

John had had all those experiences, yes, but he had had all the others as well, all the others no one had had any part in it. John had seen Sherlock lose control, had seen Sherlock almost explode himself in their kitchen, had been there when he needed patching up, scolding and company.

Lestrade certainly had been there to do the arresting after they had caught a suspect. But John had jumped on the freezing Thames after Sherlock to save him as many times as he had needed. John had been the one there to tell Sherlock to run and leave the pool while he still could.

And Mrs Hudson had been there to bring the tea tray with her lovely biscuits, for sure. But John had been the one who would make Sherlock's tea at least twice a day everyday, and the one to force toasts and beans down Sherlock's throat, never mind how difficult he was being about it.

John had always been the _one_.

Well, not anymore.

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had been happy with Sherlock's return. They were glad Sherlock had jumped from a rooftop to apparently save them. But John couldn't shake off the questions that filled his mind since the very moment Sherlock had approached him with that absolutely ludicrous moustache. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were fine with Sherlock's motives for leaving, but John could not forget that he had left, in the first place. He was glad, for sure. Of course. He had asked for him not to be dead, Sherlock had heard him. But, before that, Sherlock hadn't given a second thought to the fact that he was leaving John behind.

And that was fine, really, John thought, when he heard the shower being turned off. That was fine. It wasn't his place to ask anything from Sherlock. He had been a flatmate. He had been convenient. Maybe he had been _just_ that, a convenient assistant, a gun at hand, a doctor, a maid. Molly had been convenient when Sherlock needed to vanish, and John had not. Just like that, he was left behind. He tried to loosen the fists his hands had tightened into without him noticing and took a deep breath. It was useless to let his mind wander like that, no good could come from it. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking about everything over and over again, while working, or eating, or when he should be sleeping.

While everyone seemed so happy to be there for Sherlock now that he was back, John could not help thinking about how he had wanted to be there all along.

No use to it now, he thought, going to the kitchen before Mary could get out of the bathroom. She did have an incredible ability to see right through him, though not as well as Sherlock.

_No use_, John reminded himself. No use to think about it now.

**ooOOooOOoo**

The chicken pot pie Mary had prepared was delicious, John couldn't remember the last time he'd had a homemade meal that tasted as good. It was a pity the food seemed to get stuck in his throat. It was also a pity that the more he tried to pay attention to what Mary was saying, the more out of place John felt.

_Just one day_, he thought. It was unbelievable what _one day_ in Sherlock's presence could do. Without any foreign rush of adrenaline, it was blatantly obvious how they were failing to find a way to get comfortable around each other again. One day. And however awkward it had been, John couldn't help the feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him ask himself if he shouldn't go running back to Baker Street. Or if maybe he shouldn't just run away from the country.

"How was Sherlock?" Mary asked, out of the blue. John _thought_ it was out of the blue; he didn't know. He hadn't been paying much attention.

"Er,... Good, good. You know how he is," he said, wincing at his own vagueness. Mary was not stupid. It was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was beautifully clever.

"Any crime solving for your blog?" She asked, with a wide smile that made it impossible for John not to smile back. Maybe it was her smile that John had noticed first. Yes, definitely the smile.

"No," John shook his head, while forcing another piece of pie into his mouth and swallowing it slowly. "He was experimenting on some feet, if you're interested in that, though."

Mary laughed joyously and cleaned her mouth on the napkin. "Feet? Of course he was."

"Some mystery murder that happened twenty years ago, that's what he told me. Apparently now he knew that the victim had met someone in a place with cleaning products around. She had some kind of acid on her clothes. Most important, her stepfather owned a factory of cleaning products," John rambled, noticing how he had paid attention to everything Sherlock had told him. Just as he always had.

"Oh, brilliant," Mary agreed. "So will they arrest him?"

John laughed at Mary's interest. He could relate. "He's been dead for ten years," and he laughed harder than he had the whole day. Mary joined him.

They continued the meal in silence. John was cataloguing everything Sherlock had told him about the Feet Lady – _terrible title for a blog entry_, John chastised himself – and mused if he could write about it. Maybe something as an interlude between talking about their cases, whenever they got at those again. John didn't know. John wasn't used to knowing these days. He wasn't always at hand, he had his own place, his own life. His major occupation wasn't being Sherlock's doctor and sidekick anymore.

_No use_, he remembered himself again. Why was he thinking about it that much? Sherlock was there at Baker Street. He was in London again, he was less than twenty minutes away, not in Siberia, not in Serbia, not in France. Sherlock was there, among them again. Why couldn't John just bloody rejoice for a moment?

"...And then I told him I didn't want daises because, well, the wedding is not in the morning. I always thought daises fitted morning weddings. And, oh my god, you're not actually listening to anything I am saying, are you?" Mary smiled, half-exasperated, half-amused. "Seriously, John, did something happen?"

"No," John answered her, honestly. Nothing had happened. Nothing. He didn't know why suddenly he couldn't enjoy a meal in his house with his soon-to-be wife. It was like coming back from the war all over again. "I'm so sorry. I'm just a bit out of it, I guess," he took her hand across the table and entangled their fingers. The ring was perfect for her. She was perfect for John. This life, he thought, _this_ was perfect for him.

They talked some more about Mary's day. She told John about their florist, a bloke named George who had a funny French accent, and who was on the verge of hysterics for being responsible for the flowers of the wedding of John Watson, the companion of the famous Hat Detective. John didn't know if he should laugh or cry for all of a sudden being _that_ John Watson again. He couldn't decide if it was brilliant or terrifying. Probably both, considering the fact that Sherlock Holmes was... well, Sherlock Holmes.

Mary continued to tell John about the preparations for the wedding. They had some places to visit in the following week, since they had yet to choose where the reception would happen. Mary had chosen a spring wedding, so she was all for a sunny village. John agreed to that. He agreed to everything without properly listening to any of it. He felt he was cheating, but he couldn't make his mind stay there, it was floating like a balloon. Mary had probably noticed, but had given up getting his attention. John vaguely asked himself if she had actually called his name and he had simply ignored it.

When they had finished the meal, John was in charge of the washing. Mary stood beside him drying the glasses and the plates. He could feel the sudden change in the room. Everything seemed even tenser.

"We can always postpone the wedding, you know," Mary said, as if this was something to be discussed lightly while drying the dishes.

"What?" John asked, holding a plate under the water and splashing water all over himself. "Why would we do that?"

"We don't have to," she told him, giving him a kiss on the cheek and turning off the tap before John actually drowned himself. "I just thought that maybe you two needed some time to readjust."

"We... two?" John asked, even though he knew exactly who the other one was. Always getting in the way, the arse. Even when he wasn't in the room. _Especially_ when he wasn't in the room, John thought, bitterly.

Mary rested her head on John's left shoulder, taking care of not to put too much weight on it. "Yes, John, you two. A few months wouldn't make that much difference. And you can readjust."

"I don't need to readjust," John affirmed, stubbornly, because he really didn't. If he was honest with himself he wanted to get the fuck on with it.

"Maybe he does," Mary said simply, now looking at John.

John snorted because the thought of Sherlock needing time to readjust to anything related to their wedding didn't make any sense to him. "Why would _he_ need time to readjust?"

"Well, he just came back and discovered his partner has a new partner, maybe it's difficult for him." Mary was being so reasonably calm that listening to what she was saying was almost giving John a whiplash.

"I wasn't his partner," John said, out of habit, and then felt completely idiotic for saying that to his own fiancée.

Mary laughed. "Of course you were his partner, and you still are. That's why you may need time to readjust."

"Have you met him at all? He is fine, he is brilliant. It won't change anything," John said, placing a kiss upon Mary's nose, and trying for the life of him to dismiss the subject. He couldn't just shut Mary up, she wouldn't stand for it, he knew.

"Well, I just thought..." she trailed off, looking at John with narrowed eyes. "Well, I just thought I should say something. You two are being bloody stupid about all this."

John was surprised by the sudden swearing. He sighed and decided to just concede to Mary's kindness, unnecessary as it was. "Thank you, love," he kissed her again. "But we really don't need more time."

John honestly had no idea of how much time he would need to readjust to Sherlock. He had no idea if that was possible at all.

**00oo00oo00**

It was after midnight and John laid wide awake beside Mary, who was sound asleep. They had watched some telly and John had given her a foot massage, partly because he was self-conscious for not giving her the attention she deserved during dinner, partly because he liked admiring her figure while she made little noises of contentment. John loved to bask in her, in everything they had built together and in how easy it was just _being_ with her.

It had never been a hard decision, to go out with her and then to decide to marry her. They hadn't gone on any awkward dates, nor had any forced chatter. They had been working together for a few weeks and they'd fallen in love, just like that, easily, softening the terrible times John had had after Sherlock's death. Mary had carved her own place in John's life, and had changed everything.

He was certain he was the luckiest man on the planet, so it was damned unfair that instead of cuddling up with his lovely fiancée, he was lying there, feeling uneasy. Suddenly, John asked himself what Sherlock would be doing at that moment. Probably playing the violin - and the memory left John feeling a sort of hollowness in his chest that took his breath away for a moment. He wanted to listen to it again, even though he knew the sound would break his heart, reminding him of the many times he had awoken in the middle of the night swearing to God he had heard a violin in his living room.

A living room that had never had Sherlock in it. And that fact had made John think he was losing his mind more often than not.

His therapist probably would have thought that Sherlock's death would mean a new round of PTSD panic attacks and psychosomatic limps, but that wasn't what had happened, not really. Sherlock had been rather like a ghost who haunted him without being kind enough to require any triggers. Dead, Sherlock had been as demanding as ever.

_Well, not anymore_, John supposed, trying to fluff his pillow.

Now they tried to keep out of each other's way. John because he still didn't know how to sail in the madness of his life. Sherlock because, quite frankly, he had had two whole years to learn to make do without John.

Before John could let himself drown in misplaced self-pity, his phone buzzed, vibrating the whole dresser. He would have been glad for the distraction if it weren't so unusual for him to get calls in the middle of the night. There were times in which they had been normal, but not anymore. John stood up, dreading to hear Harry's voice on the other side, slurping and stammering and audibly drunk. Maybe this time somebody would be contacting him from a hospital.

The name flashing in the screen filled John with a completely different sense of dread. One a thousand times worse.

"Where is he?" He asked as soon as he picked up the phone. There was a bit of commotion coming from the other side of the line and John's heart clutched in his chest. He rose his voice. "Where is he, Greg? What happened?"

_"Brixton. We came across this murder...__-__"_

Even before Greg could start explaining it properly, John knew that something had gone wrong. He ran to dress himself. While his mind tried to understand what Greg was telling him, his body began a ritual that could only be explained by instinct. He reached to the box in the back of the wardrobe, and in a few swift moves, he checked the ammo and stuck the gun in the back of the jeans he had put on. The Browning wasn't properly cleaned or oiled, but it would have to do. It had saved Sherlock too many times to fail them now.

_"Sherlock didn't tell me, but I think he was on to something, and now my people discovered the guy is much more dangerous than we expected. The guy is up to his neck with a dangerous cartel, John, I don't think Sherlock knows that-"_

Of course he bloody knew that, he was Sherlock Holmes, he knew everything, John cursed while hastily fastening his shoes. What Greg meant to say was that Sherlock had known exactly how dangerous it was, but he had ran there anyway, because he was reckless and completely stupid, never mind his brilliancy.

_"I've sent some cars, but I am caught up at a crime scene with the bloody Chief Superintendent. And you know Sherlock, the officers won't be able to do much-"_

Greg was cut off by someone talking to him and John was torn between waking Mary up and leaving a note. He decided to leave a note, because he didn't want to lose any more time explaining anything.

"_You have to go after him, John. Mycroft is out of the country, I didn't know-"_

"Send me the _bloody_ address, Greg," John said, angry that Greg felt the need to convince him, as if he would leave Sherlock alone at a time like this. "I'm running there now, I'm taking a cab. I'll try to call him. Leave a bloody ambulance available, I don't care what it takes," he said while scrawling a messy note to Mary.

John hung up without waiting for Greg to say anything else and barged out of the door.

-end-

* * *

**I am now terrified of Mary, so let's see how things here go, all right? **

**Please, come talk to me on tumblr and let's ramble about the show, cause I'm in shock and I have some theories. Hahaha.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.**

**If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr**

**I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.**

**See the end of the chapter for more notes.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

John held himself straight in the back of the cab. The driver did everything he could to earn the additional fee John had promised to pay if he made there in less than half an hour. John's hands were perfectly steady, as they always were when dealing with all things _Sherlock_.

Sherlock who was not answering his phone. Of course he wasn't, because he was Sherlock Holmes, the indestructible genius who didn't need anyone.

John swore under his breath and looked out of the window. Sherlock had dismantled Moriarty's web all over the world by himself, and maybe he thought he didn't need John by his side, but John would be damned if Sherlock would get rid of him that easily in London.

To say that John had been hurt when he discovered he had been deliberately left behind before was an understatement. Even now, running off to follow Sherlock's trail, John asked himself what good that would do. Greg seemed to think that John would know how to find Sherlock, that he would have a better insight of how Sherlock's mind worked. Maybe, John thought. Maybe that was right, but it was hard to believe it after being played for two years.

Maybe if John had permitted himself to look for clues then, he could have had figured it out. But that would have cost him the last bit of sanity he still had.

John sighed and rubbed his face, trying to erase the complete exhaustion he felt lurking in. He tried to call Sherlock again, and again all that he heard was the recording of Sherlock's posh voice.

_"You've reached Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective. Leave a message and don't be boring, or I shall delete it."_

_Insufferable poncy twat_. John smiled despite himself. He remembered the time when Sherlock's voice mail consisted of the two sentences: 'You've reached Sherlock Holmes. If you're going to be boring, call John Watson instead.' That had left John in charge of the incoming cases for quite some time, and by the end of it, he was almost siding with Sherlock on the whole 'please, don't be boring' mantra. Of course, Sherlock hadn't bothered to change the message back for six whole months.

Good old times.

Not that old. Undeniably _good_, John thought_._

The cabbie managed to get John there in thirty-five minutes, but John decided he deserved the tip anyway. Getting out of the car, John remembered that this was where everything had begun. Not the first meeting, but the first time he had seen Sherlock in his element being majestic, dramatic, a bit ridiculous, but charming in a way only Sherlock Holmes could behave in a crime scene. After that Mycroft couldn't have kept John away from 221B, even if that had been his motivation for the first kidnapping.

John looked around. The streets were mostly empty, and a dead silence engulfed everything. It was better that way; Sherlock wasn't the only one used to moving silently. Greg had sent the number of a building that apparently worked as the general headquarters of the cartel to which the man Sherlock had gone to confront belonged. It was particularly distinct from the rest of the houses in that street, it seemed less homely somehow and more business like. John supposed that Sherlock would have noticed right away that something was amiss.

Or maybe he had known something was amiss right from the beginning. Probably. He had probably run off to face a whole cartel by himself, only armed with his _delightful_ personality. John could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts: '_What could go wrong?'_

Stupid man.

John lurked on the corner of the street, observing the building. He couldn't see Sherlock anywhere and he felt suddenly afraid that his own hastiness had put the detective in danger. He prayed to god that Sherlock's phone hadn't given him away.

Started by a sudden noise, John crouched behind a car and observed the house with more attention. He couldn't see what was going inside it, since the windows were too high, but he saw three cars leaving the car park and then turning the other corner of the street, leaving the neighbourhood. If lucky, Sherlock had waited for that moment to get out of hiding and investigate. It was like him to hide in plain sight with that ridiculous coat and ridiculous collar turned up to hide his own pale face. As good camouflage as any, John supposed. He stood up without taking his eyes out of the house.

Now that he was there, he asked himself how the bloody hell would he enter the house. The gate was now closed and Sherlock had always been the one in charge of the lock picking. John had learned a thing or two, of course, but he had put a limit at buying himself a kit like the one Sherlock proudly carried in his inner pocket.

The problem was solved for John before he could take a step ahead.

There, on the wall, was Sherlock, balancing himself like a ballerina in tightrope. John was confused for a moment, but his confusion turned to panic when he understood why Sherlock was walking over a thirty foot tall wall. There was a guy running after him – probably the guy Sherlock was there to investigate. John felt his heart race fast seeing Sherlock perched there. It was too soon for fucking walls and great heights in John's opinion. He had had two years to _not_ get over that.

His first instinct was to shoot the guy. John was too far away to be of more immediate assistance. He was drawing near, but didn't want to scare the suspect or make Sherlock lose his balance. He couldn't simply start shooting from the street; he didn't know who was inside the house, he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

John looked over and felt his blood run cold. The man was now holding a gun straight at Sherlock's head.

Well, that decided the matter.

It all happened too fast.

John shot the attacker's hand to make him drop his gun, but the guy took his own shot. At the same time, Sherlock and him fell from the wall. The suspect fell on the street, Sherlock fell inside the house.

"No," John said, trying to get his voice to work, since his body was failing him. He was running, he knew, but he couldn't feel the wind on his cheeks, or the ground under his feet. It was like trying to run underwater.

_The wall wasn't that high_, he told himself. It wasn't.

The suspect was lying unconscious on the floor, and his gun had fallen near him. He had been knocked unconscious, and his hand was bleeding, but nothing serious. Even without practice for so long, John was still a crack shot. He instinctively grabbed the guy's gun and stuck it in his pocket. His mind had one and only one aim.

The gate was still locked, but John's priorities had changed. He shot the lock twice without worrying about the noise and prayed for someone to call the police. His heart was threatening to climb out of his throat.

The wall was not that high. _It was not._

The kicked the gate open and found Sherlock trying to stand up from a bunch of rubbish bags he apparently had fallen into. He was grunting and sounded dizzy, but had no visible injury and John felt the rush of relief weaken his legs. He shook his head and set to work crouching beside Sherlock.

"Easy, easy," he told him, while checking for any strains or concussion. He tucked his gun back in his jeans and held Sherlock's neck tenderly. The detective's eyes were unfocused, and he blinked slowly.

"John?" He asked, confused.

"Who else would it be?" John said, helping Sherlock to sit up. "Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?"

"No," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed that John had the need to ask such boring and trivial questions. "What are you doing here?"

"_What I am_..." John stopped himself and sighed. He thought it was bloody obvious what he was doing there. "What do you _think_ I'm doing here? Are you mad, running after a whole fucking cartel like this?"

"Stop shouting," Sherlock said. John thought he had meant it to be petulant, but it had sounded more like a request. He had definitely hit his head. John jumped into looking for any sign of concussion, keeping his left hand on the detective's neck. He was vaguely aware of his thumb brushing over the end of one of Sherlock's curls.

John felt suddenly light headed after to Sherlock's voice. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock falling and then being able to still talk to him.

There wasn't an injury now, but if John closed his eyes for too long, he could see the bloodied pavement. The wrist he was holding now in his right hand was warm and alive, but if John just took a bit longer to open his eyes again after blinking, he could feel the dead pulse on the tip of his fingers.

He was being transported to the past, when he had taken Sherlock's pulse and for a second his mind had fooled him that there was something. His rushing blood had made his own fingertips throb and he had hoped, for a second, despite his own medical knowledge, that the pulse was Sherlock's.

All sound became background noise and John had the impression that he was the one falling.

"John!" Sherlock was staring with round, worried eyes.

John wanted to say that Sherlock was the one who needn't shout, but his mouth was dry and his chest tight. He sat on the ground and breathed deeply, counting and trying to get a hold of his own damn person before he embarrassed himself even more in front of Sherlock. John was well aware of the signs of a panic attack. It had been months since he had last had one, though. That was why he had asked Mary to marry him, because he thought he was better.

"John," Sherlock said, and made it sound like a question. Or at least John thought so. His perception was compromised.

He forced himself to look straight into Sherlock's eyes because he needed to _see_ him, needed to know that he was there, insufferably and amazingly _alive_. He had to force himself to do it, but the fear of closing his eyes overlaid the rest. He moved his thumb from the errant curl to Sherlock's pulse point just to feel the beat, just to reassure himself that it was not a mind trick, not this time. He took a great number of soothing breaths. Sherlock was calling his name over and over again, but he remained stock-still. John basked in the voice, feeling glad for another reassurance.

Slowly, he came back to himself.

Slowly, he realized the position they were in. The distance between them wasn't more than five inches, he could feel the warm puff of breath leaving Sherlock's lungs on the tip of his nose.

He retreated his hands from Sherlock's body and rubbed his sweaty palms over his jeans. He couldn't remember exactly when he had sat, but there he was, with Sherlock right in front of him. After John freed him, he moved and sat shoulder to shoulder with John, resting his back on the wall. They could hear the sirens at distance. Someone had called the police at last.

"Where's the suspect?" John asked, because he'd be damned if he would sit there and talk to Sherlock about his _Sherlock-induced_ panic attacks. That wouldn't do at all.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. "I don't know."

"You don't know?!" John said, stunned. It wasn't like Sherlock to admit he didn't know things, let along things about the crimes he was currently investigating.

"Well, I fell from a wall, didn't I?" Sherlock stood up and paced in front of John. The movement was a familiar one. "I didn't even think—" he stopped talking, but continued pacing.

John Watson had a few talents. One of the most important ones was being able to save Sherlock Holmes – at least when he was allowed to help. Sherlock seemed lost, and even if John didn't know exactly why _(Because of the panic attack? Had he made the connection? Because he had fallen of a wall? Because he had lost the suspect? Because John was there?)_, he knew how that worked.

John took a deep breath and stood up again, stretching his muscles and taking his gun again. The police sirens were very close, but he knew Sherlock needed some resemblance of normalcy at that moment. He did too, if he was honest to himself. Sherlock gave him a small smile, but John could see the fire lit up on those eyes. He knew them too well. He suspected his weren't very different.

"Come on," John said, with a motion of his head, indicating that Sherlock should follow him and not the other way around. Oddly enough, Sherlock promptly complied. "The game is on and all that," John said, and heard Sherlock let out a giggle. Here they were again, John thought. One had fallen off a wall and the other had just felt the beginning of a panic attack, and they were both giggling. Whatever the hell was wrong with them, John sighed to himself, he was glad there were two of them again.

**00oo00oo00**

Lestrade was looking at them in a funny way.

It had all been a bit ridiculous, John agreed, but he didn't need to mock them.

They had left the car park ready to chase the suspect and had stepped right into a street full of police cars and worried neighbours. Lestrade had already cuffed the suspect, who had been trying to run away when he arrived there.

Sherlock and John had almost been shot by mistake. John didn't know why they hadn't thought about the danger of showing themselves in front of the police with a gun at hand. Were they so engrossed in their own selves? John knew the feeling, but he was stunned by Sherlock's distraction.

It was easy enough for John to understand then. Sherlock had been giving him space and something else to think about after the panic attack. John was glad for it.

They giggled for minutes after the whole ordeal and Lestrade looked at them as if they were mad, which was so familiar that it left John feeling a little self-conscious. There he was, once again, behaving like a teenage boy, running around with his best mate, terrorizing the neighbourhood instead of doing his homework.

Or going back to his wife, for that matter.

It was a very strange feeling for him, as if this life wasn't his anymore to live and he didn't have the right to live it. _And how bloody unfair it was that he had gotten a second chance and couldn't enjoy it? _

He stopped thinking about it and focused on Sherlock while he explained to Greg how he had deduced that the the suspect – one Charles, apparently – had been lying all along. He had been arrested for a single kidnapping that was registered as his first offence, but it had been obvious that he was into something bigger. At least it had been for Sherlock. Greg didn't seem much surprised by the fact that it hadn't been obvious to him. Of course he hadn't noticed Charles' fine clothes, his brand new watch, his suspicious tan and the foreign bills in his wallet. The guy had been _clearly_ implicated in an enormous scheme to get cocaine inside British borders. Colombian pesos, tan, nice clothes... Sherlock said it hadn't been a difficult leap, that he had seen those signs before.

John had too. It made his heart ache remembering those days in which the pool hadn't happened yet, in which they didn't know Moriarty would burn the heart out of Sherlock. John still asked himself what that had been about.

As for his own heart, John knew it had been burned to a crisp. He was suddenly _glad_ for having a second chance.

Sherlock continued to pace about, all billowing coat and strings of deductions. Greg still had that funny look on his face, but he wasn't looking at Sherlock, he was looking at John. John thought the DI was remembering their first time together.

The three of them had gathered around a corpse one day and John's life had changed completely.

Sherlock finished his deductions and to all their surprise, it was _Greg_ the one who said it.

"Brilliant," he stated, once again looking at John. They smiled knowingly.

John hid his smile behind his hand and thought about how much he had missed _this_. He silently thanked Greg for being able to say what he yet couldn't.

He had never thought it would be possible to miss feeling stupid, but the truth was that being around Sherlock had always allowed him to take action, to do things instead of having to waste time analysing whatever it was they had been investigating. He trusted Sherlock one hundred percent, and was willing to shoot in whichever direction he pointed because one couldn't get cleverer than Sherlock.

The detective was looking between Greg and John, frowning. When he made the connection and smiled too, he seemed strangely embarrassed by it. He cleared his throat.

"Well, do you know that you keep saying that out loud?" And when he lifted his head again, his eyes flew directly to John's.

John knew the silence had been enough to say that there would never come a time when he wasn't going to think that, even if his throat was too tight to say it. He thought Sherlock understood too. They shared tiny nods, and kept their eyes on each other's. Sherlock was probably trying to deduce him. John was just unable to look elsewhere.

"Well, off you go," said Lestrade, interrupting the silence.

John and Sherlock frowned, finally taking his eyes off each other and looking at Greg for an explanation. "Don't you want our statements?" John asked.

"Nah, it can wait 'til tomorrow. The two of you _will_ show up tomorrow at Scotland Yard, won't you? So, _that's_ settled," Greg said, not leaving room for objections. John wasn't stupid, he knew what he was being tricked into. He was torn between being mad about this or about the fact that he needed to be tricked in the first place.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. John made a note to look for signs of a cold or infection. The detective seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "We'll see," he said simply.

John wouldn't say that his heart fell, that would be too emotional for it. And he didn't have the right to be disappointed. He was the one who had been running away from Sherlock since he had come back, it was only natural that Sherlock would prefer to do this alone.

Lestrade had walked away and started talking to some neighbours.

John thought it was time he headed back home. One could only pretend everything was the same for so long.

"So, I'd better be off then—" he said, at the same time Sherlock asked "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock's face fell – and John was sure it was a genuine emotion. "Oh," he said. "Of course."

John could just walk away, he had done it before. He could pretend again that it would be enough to shut out the gut feeling that connected him to Sherlock. He turned his body away and watched the street ahead.

He could go home and continue to feel hollow, restless, miserable, no doubt. But he was so tired of that.

An hour earlier, Sherlock had fallen from a wall and John had had a panic attack but everything had seemed a thousand times better than all the hours before.

He took a deep breath and gave up trying so hard. He turned back toward Sherlock. John licked his lips and smiled awkwardly. "You know what? I'm starving."

Sherlock had no reaction, he stood there looking at John without blinking. John started fidgeting. He knew Sherlock hadn't ask him to dinner just to be polite, so what the hell was that about?

The detective snapped out of it and smiled a smile that John knew well. It never ceased to impress him, however. He returned it in fullest, and didn't miss the fact that it had come naturally.

**00oo00oo00**

They sat in front of each other in the small booth. The small Chinese restaurant was nearly empty, which was not unusual, given it was almost 2 am. Sherlock ate ferociously while John watched him.

"What?" Sherlock asked around a mouthful of dim sum. He tried to smile, but it was quite a lot of food.

John laughed. "You eating without Mrs Hudson bothering you about it."

Sherlock swallowed the food and took a large gulp of water. "Or you," he said, and the left corner of his mouth turned slightly up.

John sighed. "Or me," he agreed.

Sherlock continued to eat and John continued to watch him. He knew it would be awkward to other people, but they weren't other people. He let himself watch the lines of Sherlock's mouth and the movement of his Adam's apple, glad for the little signs of _life_ emanating from the body in front of him. When Sherlock lifted his eyes from his plate and looked straight into John's, John continued to stare.

That was certainly inappropriate, John thought, vaguely. It should be strange for mates to share that kind of look. And yet, John felt washed by the rightness of it. He had felt like that since the beginning. It was terrifying to realize how right it still felt, and John tried to ignore the fear of having all that ripped out of him again.

He willed away the tightness in his chest and washed down the dryness of his mouth with a glass of water. Sherlock must have realized the turn of John's thoughts, because his lips had become tense and he was looking at John as if trying to think of the adequate thing to say.

John hated when Sherlock tried to be adequate because it always ended up in lies. He had always accepted Sherlock's inadequacy. He didn't deserve to be fooled by his fake niceties.

Something on his face must have told Sherlock that he'd better keep his mouth shut. The other man kept eating, now more slowly than before, chewing mechanically and swallowing audibly. The quality of the silence changed and in a second they were back to feeling awkward and _wrong_ around each other. John didn't want to make things worse, but his empty mouth had its own opinions.

"Are you ever going to tell me?" He asked, drawing randomly in the water condensation on his glass. He looked at his own fingers for a bit, then lifted his eyes again to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock had that expression on his face that screamed that he had no idea what to say. John could almost hear the gears of his mind working. Working to fool John yet again. John was so sick of it.

"Don't lie to me _again_," he said, rubbing his hands together under the table. "Just tell me the truth. Will you tell me?"

"I'd prefer not to speak of it ever again," Sherlock said, and sounded honest. His eyes were shiny, and he also had his hands under the table. John suspected they were mirroring each other's positions.

John's breath caught is his lungs. He didn't know what to make of that. Sherlock didn't want to talk about jumping? Or he didn't want to talk about what had happened in those two years?

"Neither," Sherlock said, starting John. Nothing new about Sherlock reading John like an open book. This time, John refused to feel awkward about it, or to question Sherlock's right to do it.

"Were you hurt?" John asked, because, when it came down to it, it was the thing that mattered the most to him. It felt like trying an old pair of jeans that fitted perfectly. That had been his place. He was admitting he had missed it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to act like he didn't understand John's worry, but he smiled and John could tell it was fond. "Honestly, _doctor_..."

"Well, that's me, I _am_ a doctor," John conceded, unhelpfully.

"_And_ a soldier," Sherlock pointed out, arrogantly.

"Yes, stop being a smart arse. I'm both."

Sherlock looked at him intently and nodded. "I know." His eyes had a familiar blaze in them. John had seen it a dozen times, but had never been able to tell what it meant. _Admiration_, maybe? Just the thought of that seemed ridiculous to John.

"So, were you injured?" John asked, stubbornly. He had spent enough time around Sherlock to learn to be annoying when it suited him.

"A bit," Sherlock admitted. "Nothing serious."

John had the urge to ask to see any scars, partly because he needed as much reassurance as he could get, and partly because he was, indeed, a doctor, and Sherlock had been his patient for a long time. He suspected he had been the only doctor Sherlock had ever willingly submitted himself to.

John resented that he didn't know if he had the right to ask this from Sherlock anymore, that they were not going back to the same house at the end of the night, and that he wouldn't be able to follow Sherlock's health as closely as he did before.

And how ridiculous of him was that? Sherlock was a grown man, had lived well enough before John and had lived well enough after him. He didn't need babysitting or John caretaker tendencies. He was fine.

Or _apparently_ fine.

John hated not knowing.

_He didn't need John to know_, John reminded himself firmly. He hated getting all tangled up in his own pitiful drama. He was the one who wanted to know and who couldn't find it in himself to ask.

He cleared his throat and refocused his eyes on Sherlock's again, who was looking at him knowingly. He seemed tense.

"I was beaten, I didn't get shot. But I was beaten," Sherlock said, hurriedly. "A few times," he concluded.

"A _few times_?" John asked, holding his left hand in a tight fist.

"Not more than six, maybe seven," Sherlock said and grimaced. John knew that it wasn't caused by memories, but by John's own expression.

"You were beaten _six_ times," John repeated, trying to calm himself, but his voice was loud and echoed in the empty restaurant. However, he knew it was useless to shout now, to try to soothe violence with more violence. He had already done that.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, watching John closely.

"No," John shook his head. "It's not _fine_ at all," he argued. He decided to let his voice get as loud as he needed. "You have no idea... You should have let me go with you."

"I know," Sherlock said. And it was so low that John thought he had imagined it. "But it was impossible."

John didn't want to have that conversation. He didn't want to tell Sherlock that he thought the real reason was that Sherlock simply had not wanted John there. John had ceased to be convenient.

Sherlock huffed and John turned his attention back to him. "You see, but you never observe, do you, John?" He asked, sounding tired.

"No, I don't. I was used to having _you_ for that," John said, without thinking. "Until one day I didn't," he looked at Sherlock, willing him to understand John's hastiness. He wasn't trying to punish Sherlock, he didn't think so. He was just tired. He wanted things to go back, but he couldn't wish that. He wanted his two lives to fit each other perfectly and to be complete again.

"You still do," Sherlock said.

And John was so glad, so fucking glad to hear that. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, took a deep breath and nodded, then sipped his now lukewarm water.

"Well, yes, I'm glad," John said. "And you have your doctor back."

Sherlock smiled and nodded back.

The waiter came to their table and they asked for the bill. After they had paid, they picked up their coats in a comfortable silence and headed for the door.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to John with a look of pure mischief in his eyes. "You can be my doctor again now you've shaved that thing off," and he laughed out loud.

John had the urge to tackle him to the ground, but he ended up joining him in a round of laughter that he was sure was inappropriate for 3 am.

_Teenage boys_, John thought.

* * *

**I'll probably be changing by update day to thrusday, I thought I should warn you all! (:**


	4. Chapter 4

**I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.**

**If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr**

**I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.**

In this chapter:

_"He was carrying too many things. He was suddenly aware of it. Blues and trains and pools; and bombs and fires and oranges; and greys. And all the red."_

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

_Everything was blue._

_He looked both ways in the long corridor. He could feel his frantic heartbeat._

_They didn't have any more time._

"_John, there was stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't __say it__..."_

_The chlorine invaded his nostrils and his vein jumped on his neck._

_He ran, calling the name over and over again. It was his lucky word. It was the word of doom._

_He opened all the doors he could find, he tore curtains, he broke windows._

_A neat round cut in the centre of the glass. But he couldn't see anything._

_Get him, get him._

_He called the name over and over again._

_Everything was going orange, soon to be hot and burning._

"_Say it now."_

_He waited for the blast._

_It never came._

_He heard a dry thud. A body. A body hitting the ground._

_Everything was grey. The pavement, red._

"_Sorry, I can't."_

_There should be some rubbish bags, he knew, there should be._

_There weren't._

_Everything was red._

"_Sherlock!"_

"John?" Mary's voice was a distant point in an ocean of chaos. John's own ragged breath screamed in his years. He sat up in bed immediately, swinging his feet over and planting them on the ground, digging his toes in the carpet. He looked ahead at nowhere in particular, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.

"John?" Mary sat beside him and tried to take his hand. He didn't let her. He needed space. He was suddenly afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from shoving her if she tried to hold him again. There was a panic attack coming, he could feel. His nostrils were full of chlorine, despite the fact that John hadn't been in a pool in years. Since Moriarty, since he had told Sherlock to run.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. His lungs seemed full of pool water. He had never drowned in it, but he had carried all that water ever since. He was carrying too many things. He was suddenly aware of it. Blues and trains and pools; and bombs and fires and oranges; and greys. And all the red. John hated all the colours.

He tried to drink the glass of water that was on his dresser. It shattered beside his feet. He looked at it to ground himself. _Shattered_, he thought. Everything seemed irrevocably shattered.

"John, are you all right?" Mary asked, sounding more worried than before, turning on the lamp on his side of the bed. She could be so caring and loving. John loved her. He wouldn't know what do without her. But he also didn't know what do with her in that moment. He had never had an audience for his nightmares before, not like this. She was trying to touch him, to be reassuring, and all he needed was space.

He told himself to answer her at once, to end her worry. He couldn't. He couldn't even nod. In his eyes everything was colour. Everything was red. In his head, Sherlock was still dead. John hated that now that Sherlock was actually _alive_ again, John seemed to need proof of it every now and again. What kind of miserable little captain was he that the loss of one single brother-in-arms was enough to destroy him completely?

What kind of human being was he that the coming back of the same brother-in-arms had carved his chest cavity empty of everything?

"John?" Mary's training finally kicked in, and she took his pulse. He wanted to love her for it so much, but he hated her then. _He_ was the one used to take care of others, not the other way around. He couldn't help feeling a bit of resentment.

John set his mind to standing up. He poured all his lasting energy into getting as far away from their bed as he could. That bed wasn't the place for this. It wasn't the place for him to bring a part of himself that he had needed to bury to save at least something.

John felt the smooth sheets under his fingers. He had never felt so disconnected from it. The part of his life that had been engraved in war, adrenaline, heartbreak and blood had no place on those sheets.

The fluffy pillow Mary had picked especially for him wasn't the place to bring Sherlock and his madness, the madness he had brought into John's life from the day one. The madness John's body couldn't take anymore, but craved at the same time.

He felt sick.

He forced himself to finally stand up and walked erratically to the bathroom. He locked the door and sat on the floor, in front of the toilet, resting his head on the cold porcelain, humiliated. Mary was standing on the other side of the door, asking for him, almost shouting. He wanted to be reassuring, but he couldn't even stand on his own feet. He tuned her out to avoid telling her to shut up. It wasn't her fault, he remembered himself.

It wasn't her fault she had fallen in love with the doctor. It wasn't her fault that now, out of the blue, her doctor had changed back into something ugly and damaged.

_Not out of the blue_, John thought, bitterly. He was trying to slow his own breathing, to get a hold of his body, to get his hands to stop shaking.

Not his hands. _His hand_, his left hand. The hand that had given him away to the Holmes brothers. The same hand that once again was showing John how utterly lost he was.

Sherlock Holmes had saved him once. Only Sherlock Holmes could have shattered him so completely again.

John had run out of options. To be fixed by Sherlock wasn't a possibility anymore. It seemed as if all had been lost. Sherlock's coming back had just make it fairly obvious.

John didn't have anywhere to run away to.

His soon-to-be wife was pounding at the door. Sherlock was pounding in his head. Neither of them had the slightest idea of how devastated John was.

Ella had known. From the moment he had sat on that stupid chair in front of her after Sherlock's fall, she had known. She had _seen_. John had never come back after that. He hadn't needed a reminder. He had needed to forget.

Well, that had happened for a brief period of time.

Now everything was coming back to haunt him. A six foot tall ghost who had come back to life to remind him how completely pathetic John had been for grieving.

His stomach turned in revulsion. He couldn't take anymore, he emptied its contents in the toilet, feeling tears of rage running down his cheeks.

He had said goodbye to that life. He had tried to move on. He couldn't live until the end of his days feeling sorry for himself, waking up trembling and sweating because of a man that had given no second thought to jumping off a building right in front of him.

Putting John back together wasn't Sherlock's job anymore. Maybe they had been fools to think they could try again. Maybe John had been a fool, Sherlock was probably well aware of the fact, had deduced it long ago and was now trying just for the scientific kick.

John told himself to _calm the fuck down_.

He swallowed the bitterness and straightened his back. Captain Watson was better than that.

He trained his breathing, focusing on the grout between the tiles of the bathroom wall.

He swiped his disgusting mouth on the sleeve of his pyjamas and rested his back on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the terrible colours to go back to the hidden corners of his mind.

_Hold on_, _stay put_, _survive_. He had been doing it all his life. He would do it again.

Mary's voice invaded his ears once more. Sweet, loving Mary, who was his fiancée and who was worried sick about him. Mary who needed a word from him to know he was okay, it didn't matter how much of a lie that would be.

"John! John, I'm calling the neighbour to run down this door if you don't answer me right at this second!"

"'M okay," he said, weakly.

He was crying involuntary tears, his mouth reeked, his hand was shaking, his head was pounding and he felt lost. But he was going to be fine.

"I'm taking a shower," he said, while standing up from the floor and looking himself in the mirror. He washed his mouth and face, trying to remember who he was, apart from the sidekick that had been left behind.

He took of his clothes slowly and looked his naked torso in the mirror. That scar was proof of what he could endure, of how resistant he was. He had survived war, had survived many different wars. John Watson had survived an alcoholic mother, an alcoholic sister, Afghanistan, an infection. He had survived Sherlock Holmes and their life, and Sherlock Holmes and his death. That bullet scar was the proof that John was going to survive Sherlock Holmes and his resurrection.

And he was going to do it by himself. Therapy be damned.

The water was scalding, and he stayed under it until his skin was pink and burning. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, letting the physical reaction calm his chaotic mind. After some time, he shut off the water and dried himself in one of the lilac towels Mary left in the bathroom. It smelled faintly of lavender and John was glad for it. He was glad for anything that wasn't chlorine.

John wrapped himself in the towel and looked at his wreck of clothes. He would throw everything away, including his pants. He didn't need any reminder of this night.

To think that the confrontation with Mary was waiting for him outside gave him pause. Mary was understanding, but she had never seen John like this, she would want and need to talk, like normal people did. Like John could never do, like he had _never needed_ to because early in his life there was his mum, and then Harry, and then the army, and then Sherlock. Not for the first time, he thought this was the first normal relationship he had ever had.

And he had to adjust to it. He wanted to accept it wholeheartedly. This was what he needed, he knew it now. He would patch himself up and be good to her, he would be _better_.

John took a deep breath and straightened his back, determined to answer any questions Mary had. He would blame the war. Sherlock Holmes wasn't anybody else's business but his own. And he would bury _it_ again.

He unlocked the door and Mary was there with her big, wet eyes, waiting for him. He knew he should give her a hug, but the thought of being trapped right now seemed too much. He let her embrace him anyway and was truly glad for smelling their bed in her hair and on her neck. The smell helped soothe him.

"I'm okay," he said, trying to disentangle himself from her, but holding her hands in his own. He rubbed her palms and kissed each one of them. "I'm fine, love, I'm sorry."

Mary seemed so scared, John hated that he had made her feel like that.

"You're going to have to talk to me about this," she said, and sounded apologetic. She sounded as if she too hated that she had to ask that from John.

John took a deep breath and nodded, pointing to their wardrobe, signalling that he was going to put some clothes on so they could talk.

He put on an old pair of boxers and a t-shirt. His body was still warm after everything. He threw his dressing gown over and offered his hand to her. "Let's talk in the kitchen, okay?"

She accepted his hand, but didn't take her eyes out of his face. Her scrutiny was nothing close to Sherlock's, but John could admit to himself that it made him feel slightly more uncomfortable, especially now.

He was uncomfortable because he was trying to come up with a credible lie. He was trying to bend the truth to fit the purpose of explaining to Mary _why_, without exposing something not even he could think about just yet. He knew he would have the whole day to do it. The whole week. He'd probably have the rest of his life to notice again every little crack Sherlock's ruse had caused him.

In the kitchen, she told him to sit down and busied herself with putting the kettle on. She took the milk out of the fridge and brought the sugar to the table, setting their cups and spoons. While waiting for the kettle to boil, they stayed in silence and she petted John's head, running her fingers through the strands of his damp hair. He rested his head on her stomach.

After their cups were filled, she sat in front of John, looking at him with eager eyes, but trying to mask her worry. John vaguely asked himself how pathetic must he appear that she didn't want to trigger him with a simple look. She didn't ask anything, just waited for John.

"It used to happen a lot, that kind of thing," he started, as inarticulate as expected. She just nodded. "It has been some time since I last had one this intense. Something about PTSD," John explained. Mary knew about PTSD, but she couldn't imagine his reverted condition. He couldn't imagine telling his fiancée that the problem was that his body, while traumatized, still craved the conditions which had caused the damage. John had to thank Mycroft Holmes for this reading. Or shoot him for it.

Mary was looking at him, questioningly. Had she asked him anything? John was zoning out again. He asked her to repeat.

"Will you tell me what the nightmare was about?"

John paused with his cup of tea mid-air. He wouldn't tell her the truth, but he could tell her something. This nightmare hadn't been about the Afghan war, but this explanation would be as good as the truth. In John's head sometimes they were all the same thing.

"War things. Gun shots, IED explosions, this sort of thing. Wound, etc," he motioned vaguely with his cup of tea. As good as the truth. She didn't need to know it was him holding the gun and killing a cabbie, that the explosion had never happened and that the wound hadn't been his.

"Was that all of it?" She asked, holding her cup in her two hands, warming them on the china. John remembered it was still winter and he should be cold. He wasn't.

"Yes," he said, trying to sound convincing. Sherlock had always thought he was a terrible liar, but Mary wasn't as cunning as him. Nobody was, with the exception of Mycroft.

Mary was looking at him sadly. There was no sign of pity. Instead, she looked disappointed. John didn't understand, Mary wouldn't be disappointed in him for this. He didn't say anything, however, he didn't want to keep talking. In fact, he didn't know what he wanted to do, since going back to sleep was out of the question.

She seemed to have something to say, so John lifted an eyebrow and waited for it. Whatever it was, he wanted her to spill it out at once. He dreaded that she was going to tell him to go back to therapy.

Mary cleared her throat, and her features changed into something of determination. John was proud of her.

"You screamed his name, you know," she said, simply, and sipped her tea.

And John was _falling_ all over again.

_How_ could he not know that? It hadn't crossed his mind.

He tried to recollect the moment he had awoken, but it was just a blur in his memory and he was partly glad for it. He cleared his throat and paid attention to any lingering sting. Of course his throat was a mess, he had just thrown up to the point in which bile was all there was inside him. He asked himself if Mary could be fishing for that answer and then chastised himself for it. She wasn't the one who lied to John.

John had always dreamed silently. He had always felt comforted by the fact that even his subconscious seemed so secretive that it didn't come jumping out of his throat without his consent. It didn't matter how loud things were inside his head, his mouth was sealed.

But then again, he told himself, he had never had an eye witness before, he could have been screaming for his dear life and not know.

He considered denying, but it wasn't really an option. He was sure his face had already given him away. He hid his hands and braced himself on the chair to stop himself from fleeing. He wasn't ready to discuss this, he had never been.

"So... Are you going to tell me truth now?" Mary asked, but she didn't sound impatient, just worried.

"Everything I said was true," John said simply. It was the truth. He hoped Mary stopped asking questions and saved them both from the frustration.

"So he appears in your nightmares about the Afghan war?" Mary asked, sounding skeptical. She was pushing him, maybe too hard.

John didn't want to lie to her, nor did he want to tell her about the imagery that was finally leaving his immediate memory. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, and it was the best he could offer her. It was the truth. Not the one she wanted, but no less true because of that.

She seemed to debate with herself if she was letting him get away with it. Mary wasn't that kind of person, she was tenacious and she was always up to solve things. If she thought for a second that she could help John, she wouldn't shut up about it. John prayed that she would give up.

As she wasn't saying anything else, John assumed she had let it go. He stood up, walked around the table and planted a kiss on the top of her head as a _thank you_ of sorts. He took their empty cups and the spoons to the sink and started washing them to give himself something to do.

That was why John never talked about them to anyone. Because he never seemed ready to tell the truth, and the lie left a sour taste in his mouth.

But Mary would get over it. He hoped.

He hoped _he_ got over it. He prayed to whatever deity that was in charge that the nightmares didn't come back on that intensity. John had had his _un_fair share of soul crushing dreams for a life time.

"Are you going to tell him?" Mary asked, and it took John by surprise. When he finally understood what she had meant, he wished he hadn't.

What could he _possibly_ tell _him_? _He_ was Sherlock Holmes. What could John possibly tell him about nightmares? The simple thought made John feel the bile rise again to his throat. He didn't want to think about that, to feel this exposed before Sherlock, to see in his face that he understood how pathetic John was. He didn't need that; the near panic attack after Sherlock had fallen over the rubbish bags had been quite enough. John didn't want to consider that if he had had one eye witness to his nightmares, it had been Sherlock. He didn't want to think about how many times he must have screamed in his sleep and revealed too much of himself to the maniac downstairs playing the violin, experimenting on body parts or whatever it was that he had been doing. John dismissed the whole train of thought.

"I said I don't want to talk about it," John said, in lieu of clarifying to her that he had meant he didn't want to tell _anyone_ about it. Was Mary asking because she thought he was going to open his heart to _Sherlock_ and not to her? John decided it didn't matter. He really was done talking, he wanted to hide all the triggers and forget.

"Maybe you should tell him, or talk to someone," Mary said, as if John hadn't talked.

John couldn't believe his ears.

_This_, this had been the one thing John had tried to avoid. Now, in the middle of the night, not half an hour after he had thrown up all his stomach's content wasn't really the time for all this.

He turned to Mary and his look left no room for argument.

"This is me _not_ talking about it. I'll have the sofa, you get some rest," he said, kissing her on the forehead and leaving the kitchen.

******00oo00oo00**

John spent the day at home. Mary had not left for work until he had promised to take the day off to rest.

On one hand, he was glad for not having to deal with cases of flu and boring diagnoses; on the other, the more free time he had, the more his mind floated back to the nightmare and his own reaction to it.

After trying very hard to escape the memories, John just sat on the sofa and let his mind wander. He poured a glass of whisky and ignored his inner doctor's voice – that funny enough, was exactly like his own – that said it wasn't healthy to drink in the middle of the day. He was trying to glue the pieces of his life back together, he deserved to drink the whole bottle if he damn well pleased so.

He felt the strong taste in his tongue and swallowed the liquid while running his fingers through the glass.

It hadn't been his worst nightmare. Fortunately, John did not remember every single one of the nightmares he had had, but he knew there had been a few worse than the one from the night before. Still, it had made him throw up and shake all over, something the nightmares about the Afghan desert hadn't done.

Sherlock's death had always caused the worst nightmares for John. He was as used to it as he could ever be. Right after it had happened, he had avoided sleeping for dread of the things he would see. On the days he went to bed, he left his gun far away from him out of fear of doing something stupid.

The nightmares after the war had exhausted John, had reminded him that he wasn't an active captain anymore, that he had been shot and that he was back to the civilian life, broken and alone. The nightmares about the war reminded him of a life that wasn't his anymore. After meeting Sherlock, they had changed completely. He then had adrenaline enough in his day to day life to fuel his mind, awake or asleep.

The nightmares after that day_ – the red day, _the day Sherlock died_ –_ had been another thing altogether. He didn't dream about their life, their cases, the criminals they arrested, or Sherlock's deductions. He dreamed about Sherlock's death, over and over again. And then he dreamed about all the little deaths that brought Sherlock to the roof of St Barts and John to the front row seat for the whole act.

_Moriarty_, it was always him. He was always there, even when John couldn't see his face. He reminded John of what he had accomplished. He hadn't exploded the pool, but he had burned them all anyway.

By the time John had decided to ask Mary's hand, the nightmares had been better. John got used to fact that some nights' sleep would just not come and his mind would play tricks on him, and that in other nights, he would go to sleep and there would be nightmares that would make him feel tired the day after.

However, it had been some good months since John had had such an intense reaction to a nightmare. And it had been some time since he last had had a dream that brought back bits and pieces of the life and _certain deaths_ he and Sherlock shared. He knew Sherlock's fall a few days earlier had triggered it. He dreaded to think of everything that unfortunate misstep had triggered in him.

It seemed to John that his mind was giving him a warning. He would succumb to all the pain again if he let himself forget, even for a second, what that kind of life had brought to him. Not because of the adrenaline, or because of the danger, but because John knew what happened when one made Sherlock Holmes the centre of his life and then lost him. And John would invariably lose him again and again, because that was what Sherlock did. John asked himself if it wasn't his own fault for having ignored the amount of times Sherlock had left him alone everywhere. Maybe it had been a prelude of his final detachment.

John snorted without any humour. _Why was he even thinking about this, again?_

What angered him the most was that he already knew all that. From the moment his eyes had flown to Sherlock's in that restaurant, he had known exactly to what extent Sherlock was a sociopath. The joke had been on John for ignoring people around him again and again. He didn't resent the life he had had, but he knew he couldn't come back to it. It would kill him. To have everything again and then lose everything again would cripple him. The mere thought made his stomach wamble.

John had never dreamed about Jefferson Hope before. It had never registered to him as something other than the first time he saved Sherlock's life. He had done it so many times after that, and had offered to do it so many more times than that, that Jefferson Hope had stayed locked somewhere safe in his memories. Now John had to stop and admit _again_ that he had been running after the Sherlock Holmes since day two.

John had done that to himself. He hadn't thought twice before running after him _again_.

It was impossible not to think of Donovan. _"He enjoys it, he gets off on it."_

_What about me?_, John asked himself. What did it say about him that he ran after him over and over again?

He took a large gulp of whisky. He was feeling restless. He knew it had been that kind of restlessness that had propelled him to be Sherlock's friend or sidekick or whatever the hell one might decide to call it. That mood was natural to John, but he promised himself to find another way to get rid of it, one his body could take, one that didn't leave him all scattered.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. Before looking at his phone, John knew who it was. It couldn't be Mary, she had called him half an hour before and she almost never texted. John ran a hand through his head and laughed without humour. He half hated, half loved Sherlock's timing.

He completely hated his own inability to make peace with whatever shitty piece of life his mind used to destroy him. He grabbed the phone in his hand and opened the text.

**Care to help solve a perfect robbery in which nothing was taken? -SH**

John smiled and then scolded himself for doing it.

That was how it always started. Whenever he let himself be wholly dragged down into Sherlock's rabbit hole again, he was never able to leave. It had almost killed him once. And when he finally got kicked out of it – as he had been before – the joke would be on him, he told himself.

**Am working,** he answered, telling himself that _only lies had details_ and that Sherlock would know. John didn't know why, but he felt vaguely glad for it.

**No, you aren't. -SH**

Of course he would know. John felt his chest tightened and told himself to stop being a coward. He could simply say he didn't want to. He could say, if he could mean it. He was sure he could. He wasn't sure of anything. It was highly frustrating.

**You don't have anything do to, but won't come with me.**

**Are you ill? -SH**

John had to smile at Sherlock's inability to be modest. Of course if John didn't want to go with him, he must have other reasons, like being terrible ill or something. _Because of course John would want to_, that was why they were so well matched.

That was exactly that kind of thing his mind and body couldn't take anymore.

**No, I'm not. I just can't go. Goodbye, Sherlock**, he answered, and turned off his phone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, there, you guys!**  
**I'm really sorry for having skipped last week, real life got in the way.**  
**As an apology of sorts, I have posted a little heartbreaking fic I wrote weeks ago. See the end of this chapter for the link and the summary of this fic.**

In this chapter:

_"John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a friendly gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock."_

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**

John looked around their living room and felt glad, even if a bit overwhelmed.

Mary had wanted to have a dinner party so John could finally meet her dearest friends. From what John had understood, some of them had gone to school with her, and some others had met her in some literature group or other. He didn't recollect all the names and credentials, but they were all nice, warm people.

Mary was sparkling with happiness. She had taken care of everything, picked the bottle of wines and put together a nice little buffet to please even the most fastidious guest they'd eventually have. Everybody was pleased and seemed satisfied.

But Mary... Mary was the the most beautiful creature in their living room at that moment. She was probably the most beautiful creature in the whole London, John would bet money on it. Her black dress was breath taking and made John ask himself what he had done to deserve her.

His nightmares had become part of their sleeping ritual. John was tired of having to wake up and sleep on the sofa so many times, but Mary had been there in the morning to give him a kiss and accept him without any pity in her eyes, making love to him without any melancholy or regrets.

She had caught up quickly and hadn't asked more about his troubled sleep. She still tried to talk him into therapy, but he guessed he couldn't really blame her for that. He would probably do the same thing were their roles reversed. John knew what it meant to worry about someone that seemed stuck.

But he was getting better, he told himself. At least he wanted to. Not that he knew what to do to make it happen.

It had been two weeks since he had last seen Sherlock. The detective had tried to drag John on some cases, but John had held himself back. A week later, John had tried to contact him to know what he had been up to, but Sherlock hadn't answered any of his texts. Mrs Hudson had said he was out of the country.

It was all fine, John thought. _Again_.

That was how they were supposed to be now, nothing wrong with it. He had a proper job, a wedding to plan, his life to work on. Sherlock had his own mad things to do. Neither one of them needed the other to get in their way.

John took a gulp of the white wine and closed his eyes to appreciate its flavour. In truth, he wasn't a wine person, but he couldn't deny it had been a great choice. The fish that had been served for dinner had been perfect with it. Now people were scattered all around the flat, chatting and laughing. John was going to rejoin them soon enough, he was just taking some time to himself. He straightened up his tie and felt a bit ridiculous in those clothes. He was sure it had been too much. They were in their own bloody living room, for Christ's sake.

Mary was talking to some of her girlfriends; her high pitched laughter drew John's attention and he smiled, not for the first time that night, admiring her from afar. She really _was_ gorgeous.

He was getting ready to walk over to her when the doorbell rang. He asked himself who could possibly be, that late. They had already eaten dinner. The late arrival would have to make do with coffee and the mini chocolate bars.

Mary looked at him and motioned him to answer the door for her 'please, please, please'. He could just make the exact tone she would use in his mind. He smiled and sighed exasperated but fond.

He opened the door and his brain went white.

He stared.

Standing there, looking extremely uncomfortable and out of place was Sherlock in his usual attire. He was holding a bottle of the same wine Mary had picked up because _of course_ he had deduced it.

But when had that happened...? _How...?_

John and Mary had some serious talking to do.

John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a _friendly_ gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was offering the bottle of wine to John with his left hand because his right one was in a cast.

"Hi, John," he said, and sounded perfectly normal and bored. Damn him. "I'm sorry, but Mary wouldn't accept no for an answer." The right corner of his mouth turned up.

John decided not to say that Sherlock had never given a rat's ass about what anyone would accept as an answer or not. He seriously had other preoccupations.

"How did you break your hand?"

"Oh, hello!" Mary interrupted them. She hugged Sherlock with an ease that made John's jaw clench. Sherlock and hugging was something John had never been comfortable with, because he knew Sherlock was not really a hug person, Mrs Hudson being the one and only exception.

"We're so glad you could make it," she said squeezing Sherlock left hand and expressing sympathy over the broken one. The speed of her gestures was making John a bit sick. He hadn't seen Sherlock for weeks, he wasn't ready to interact with him like this, there, in a normal person's event. Sherlock would hate it. John had absolutely no idea of what the detective was doing there. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what was he doing there either.

And why had Mary set them up like this? It didn't make any sense. John hated her choice of pronoun, as if 'we' was a sort of entity that soon-to-be-married people used to behave as one. He didn't confirm nor deny that he was glad for Sherlock being there. In fact, he had no idea if he was glad.

And at the same time he couldn't stop from worrying over the bloody broken arm, about how thin Sherlock looked and how strange it felt to not know how he had been injured and why he wasn't eating. It was something that John simply wasn't able to do, to stop _wanting_ to know. Just as he wasn't able to tell himself that he hadn't missed that big idiot with his overly dramatic coat.

"Ah, what about Martha?" Mary asked.

_Mrs Hudson_? Had Mary invited her too? Well, now that was more likely.

"Evening soothers, you know how she is," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John snorted despite himself. He knew bloody well how Mrs Hudson was with her _soothers_. They could shoot a suspect in 221B's living room and she wouldn't wake up. John would know, it had happened before.

Sherlock was smiling at him knowingly. He seemed to have the perfect comment to make, but Mary interrupted them once more. It was like they were constantly forgetting that there were other people in the universe.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Mary said, while dragging Sherlock by his coat sleeve over to a friend of hers. John knew her somewhat well. She had been around frequently, as she was Mary's best friend.

_Janine_, his brain provided him uselessly. Yes, he knew her name. What good that would do? Apparently, she wasn't there for Mary's sake.

Sherlock wasn't there for his either.

John had absolutely no idea of what do to with that sudden realization. It was too surreal for him to contemplate. He wanted to call the whole reunion out.

Janine was alone in a corner. John was pretty sure she had been chatting with her other friends before, so they had all deserted her on purpose. What the hell was that? Was Mary going matchmaker on _Sherlock_? The thought made John's insides turn over themselves.

But he would ignore it and go on; it wasn't his business. And it surely would go disastrously. It probably said much about him that he was already planning to choose a seat and watch the whole thing. Maybe he would make some popcorn, and have it with beer.

"Janine," Mary called, purposelessly. Janine was well aware of their entourage, she seemed to be expecting it anxiously. "Here is someone I know you've been dying to meet," Mary said, dragging Sherlock until he was almost toe to toe with her friend.

Sherlock looked at John with a look of pure terror. John had to admit all that was going great. He looked aside to hide his smirk. Sherlock frowned at him and seemed to recollect his acting skills.

"Yes, hi... Janine?" He asked, charmingly. He took her hand and kissed it.

John rolled his eyes. _Prat_.

"Oh," Janine said, seeming out of breath. "The papers haven't done you any justice."

"You have no idea of how _true_ that is," John's mouth said, without his consent. He didn't remember giving it permission to open in the first place. But it was true. John was the one who had suffered through all of it, all the lies, all the filth the press had fed itself with before all had been cleared out.

Mary giggled. "Oh, John, I don't think Janine is talking about the same thing as you."

John startled and looked at Janine.

No, indeed. He had to agree with Mary. She looked hungrily at Sherlock.

"Yes, I know all about that," Janine said, "...but those press photos haven't done your face any justice either," she said.

And _wow_, all right.

John was not talking about that. Definitely.

And what the hell was wrong with Sherlock's face anyway? Or not wrong, for that matter. Apparently completely right, in Janine's not-so-secret opinion.

Sherlock was looking at Janine searchingly. She sure thought was a seduction technique. Poor her.

John grimaced looking at Sherlock's face. It suddenly wasn't that funny anymore. John didn't want Sherlock to break Mary's best friend's heart. He had been there when Sherlock had crumpled Molly's and it wasn't a very nice memory.

John wasn't saying anything about the state of his own heart after Sherlock had jumped because they were just mates. It was different. But Sherlock didn't know how to deal with _anyone_. So John needed to get Janine out of there sooner rather than later.

Before he could interrupt the new couple, Mary grabbed him by the hand and took him aside.

"Don't be a spoilsport, leave them be," she said, as if it was all a big joke.

John fidgeted with his tie. The damn thing was suddenly driving him crazy.

"Leave them be? Do you want your best friend to run away crying? Because that's what is going to happen in ten minutes," John answered, itching all over. What the hell was happening that his bloody clothes were ganging up on him now? He rubbed his neck, loosening the tie to give his skin a break.

"I doubt it. Janine is not that easy to break," Mary said, dismissing John's worry and coming over to him. She batted his hands away from his tie and undid the knot, taking it out of him. John loved her for it.

"I think you've got a rash," she said, looking at his neck.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did you invite him over for this?" John asked, still rubbing his skin, despite the fact that he was a bloody doctor and knew he shouldn't.

"She is a big fan of _Sherlock Holmes_," Mary said, and she emphasized his name as she meant to say they were all very cute and endearing for solving crimes and blogging about it and being friends. John was glad Mary thought it was nice. He himself wasn't sure he would ever be able to face it all so lightly.

"She was really _dying_ to meet him. She's got a crush on him or something," Mary said.

Yes, well, John had figured out that much by himself.

"Doesn't she work in the press?" John asked, starting to get suspicious. He wasn't used to people liking Sherlock. He had met three kinds of people: the ones who knew Sherlock and hated him; the fans who got absolutely no clue of who the Hat Detective really was and loved him – probably exactly because of this – and the ones who knew Sherlock and loved him. The third group consisted of Mrs Hudson. And probably of Sherlock's parents, whom John hadn't been given the pleasure to meet.

As for John himself... Well, he was too tired identifying the groups to categorize himself. He was always floating between loving and hating Sherlock.

Mary had answered him and he had not listened. "What?" He asked, inelegantly. That damn rash was driving him mad.

Mary rolled her eyes, but looked at him as if he was being amusing. "Honestly, John... And besides, Janine and Sherlock have to get used to each other."

John frowned and stared at Mary as if she were mad. "Why would they _have_ to do anything?"

That didn't make any sense. But Mary just laughed and looked at him as if he was the one being nonsensical. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and left him there.

John shook his head and told himself to get a grip. Sherlock was an adult, he knew how to take care of himself. He didn't need John to worry over his fans. He could probably manage them.

Maybe he would do it better than he managed his friends, he thought while scratching his neck absent-mindedly.

* * *

John tried to mingle a bit, but his eyes didn't leave Sherlock and Janine for more than five minutes. He knew he was being ridiculous, Sherlock was not his responsibility in any capacity, and he didn't need John to protect him from social gatherings or beautiful women.

He hadn't even needed John to _invite_ him. Honestly, Sherlock didn't need him to do _anything_.

It was obvious by how comfortable he seemed. His shoulders were relaxed, his smiles were small, not affected. He didn't look like someone who was faking his charm, he looked genuinely charming, as John knew he was. Sherlock looked perfect. He and Janine even laughed now and then.

Why was Sherlock being so civilized all of a sudden? Why _here_, why _now_?

John surprised himself realizing that he preferred to suspect Sherlock's motivations than to consider the possibility that that was just Sherlock being himself.

John was a terrible human being. He didn't want to let himself be friends with Sherlock again, but he didn't want Sherlock to have another friends. _Another John.._.

_For God's sake, how old am I?_

John decided to go to the bathroom and wash his face. His neck was all red and he was feeling hot all over. He didn't know what the hell was going on with him. He had never been allergic to anything, and he was too old to have developed any sudden condition out of the blue.

He had probably had too much wine. It didn't explain the rash, but explained why all of a sudden he couldn't take his eyes off his friend who was chatting up a beautiful woman – had come here just for that, apparently.

John refused to ask himself _why_ he was bothered by it. The fact was that Janine _was_ a stranger and Sherlock had to be careful. They knew well enough what stalkers could do to the object of their affection.

_Dear God_, John told himself, _shut up_.

He didn't.

He remembered Kitty Riley and her obnoxious relationship with Moriarty. After Sherlock's death, he had had to invest all the energy he still had not to kill that woman. It didn't matter to John that she had been tricked by Moriarty – that did not explain her lack of sympathy in approaching John everywhere he went. Even at Tesco, she had cornered John, asking for an exclusive with '_confirmed widower John Watson'_. The thought made bile rise in John's throat again now just as it had done then.

He straightened his clothes and took a deep breath. He was going mad. Sherlock was perfectly fine. He was perfectly fine with Janine.

The fact was confirmed for him when he re-entered the living room. The nice little pair seemed to be completely engrossed in each other and John was mesmerized by it. He could understand Janine, of course. Sherlock was mesmerizing, it made sense that she had been drawn to him. But what could Janine possibly have to draw the attention of the most demanding human being on planet Earth and probably all galaxies?

That was the question. The question he had no right to ask, but was asking himself anyway.

Janine wasn't The Woman. Even John could tell Irene had been something special. She had matched Sherlock in mind and even in body in a way that had caught John off guard.

He had had enough time to think about her after Sherlock's death. He kept asking himself if things would have gone differently if she had lived and stayed there with Sherlock. She liked misbehaving and would have probably thrown Sherlock to the wolves at the first opportunity, but then again John was considered a caretaker and he hadn't done Sherlock any good.

That thought almost brought John to his knees. It was like entering a room with a body in the middle of it. It was the thing he didn't want to address but was always there. He suspected it would always be. Rationally, he knew it hadn't been his fault, but he felt he had been given something special and hadn't been able to keep it safe.

_Stupid_. Why the hell was he thinking about this? It didn't matter. It had never mattered. Sherlock wasn't dead. He was incredibly alive, had laughed those two years off as if they had never happened.

Lucky him. _Fucking_ _lucky_.

If Irene had been alive, he would have flown to meet her while he was 'dead'. They could have founded a club or something. The _Not Actually Dead_ Group.

If Irene had been alive, would Sherlock have come back? He did love London, but they would have found trouble elsewhere. _Would that have been better?_

John felt sick. _God_, he was feeling feverish.

And Sherlock was staring straight at him, frowning. John didn't mind, he was used to being on the receiving end of Sherlock's scrutiny. At least he had taken his eyes off Janine for ten bloody seconds. John rubbed at his neck and downed the rest of the wine of his glass.

He should engage with the other guests, but his legs had their own plan. He was getting sick of his body having its own will. He walked straight to Sherlock and Janine, putting his best smile on his face. That would be fun.

Sherlock was still frowning at him. Sod him, John thought.

"Oh, hi, Janine, how is it going?" He asked, feeling foolish but not giving a damn. "And you," he turned to Sherlock, "How did you break your hand again?"

Janine gave John a warm smile, but looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked John, without bothering to answer the damn question because that was _just like him_.

"Peachy," John answered. "How did you break your hand?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his own glass of wine. He did it pompously, it was infuriating. "It's nothing, John."

"How?" John asked, and he knew it was his army doctor voice. The only voice that worked on Sherlock Holmes because he was a git.

Janine was looking at them amused. Well, John was glad she was being entertained.

Sherlock stared at him, searchingly. "Some ultra secret job or another," he said. "How much of the caper sauce did you have?"

"Caper... Never mind," John answered, promising himself that Sherlock would not run away from the question. "Doesn't your brother have minions to do his legwork for him?" John said, taking Sherlock's broken hand is his and examining the cast. John thought about the violin. He would probably have some physiotherapy to do.

Sherlock took his arm away from John's grasp, but gave John a small smile. "Yes, doctor, I _know_. And Mycroft is a rubbish brother."

Janine took Sherlock's arm. "No need to worry, doctor. I'm going to take care of him," she said and winked.

John and Sherlock wore identical looks. They were both staring at Janine's grasp of Sherlock's hand.

John frowned and shook his head. "Sorry, what?"

"His hand will be perfect for the wedding."

John asked himself how much of the wine Janine had had.

At the mention of the wedding, Sherlock took his hand away from her and straightened his back. For John, it was like watching an actor getting on stage.

He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face for it.

Janine looked between both of them confused. "Mary said he's the best man. Is he not?"

Sherlock laughed, but sounded strained. "I'm sure our soldier friend would go with some historic hero whom I probably deleted...-"

"Wedding, Sherlock. She's talking about the wedding," John said, automatically, because that was his part in Sherlock's life, to translate normal human life and social conventions to him. John took a deep breath, because he too had been caught by surprise. "_My_ best man, for _my_ wedding," he repeated for his own sake.

Sherlock stared at him, blinking.

John needed a best man. And how come Mary knew Sherlock was going to be his best man when he himself didn't? And how had he not known? _Bloody hell_.

Of course it had to be him, of course it had to. John didn't have anyone else. He couldn't even think about doing that with a random rugby friend or even an old army mate. After everything, it had to be Sherlock.

But how? They hadn't exactly been around each other lately. They had lost too much, they couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened. John couldn't do that with him.

John couldn't do it _without_ him.

Janine was talking. John hadn't been listening, so he tried to tune her on again. "... this charming detective and I have a certain tradition to fulfil."

Sherlock seemed completely lost, but not because of Janine's plainspoken seduction. He was staring at John as if he was trying to find something to say. He cleared his throat and focused his eyes on Janine again. His smile was big and fake.

"I'm sure John has better options," he laughed, and John hated the sound of it. "Honestly, even a potted plant would be–"

"No, I don't," John said, firmly, taking control over the situation. It was the truth, he didn't have any other options. He didn't want to. He scratched his pulse and fidgeted, feeling the weight of Sherlock's stare. John could practically see Sherlock's brain short-circuiting.

Janine gave them a knowing look and walked away. John was glad for it.

"Well, you're my best friend," John said, matter of factly, lifting his face to meet blue grey eyes that were pouring directly into his.

"Me?" Sherlock asked, so low that John wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been so close.

"Of course _you_," John said, and he wanted to cry out of resentment. How could Sherlock not know that?

"I..."

"Yes?" John asked, because Sherlock was never that unarticulated, and John was getting worried. His own skin was stinging in sympathy for Sherlock's discomfort, it seemed.

"I have to go," Sherlock said, turning and walking to the door.

John walked after him, frowning. _What the fucking hell had just happened?_

"You haven't got your coat, or your scarf or your gloves, you nutter. It's bloody freezing out there," John said at the door. Sherlock was opening it himself, because niceties were always damned with him.

"Sherlock!" John said, trying to take Sherlock out of his reverie, whatever _that_ was about. Apparently all the best man problem had already been deleted as unimportant. John took Sherlock's arm.

The detective looked at John again. He seemed jittery. He shook his head and focused his eyes on John's again, examining his face.

John frowned because he had no clue of what was going on. He wished he could say he wasn't used to it. "What?" He asked, when Sherlock rubbed his pulse with his left thumb. It was a light movement, a soothing gesture. John fought back the need to hold Sherlock's hand and tell him to stay there.

He heard Sherlock's breath get caught in his throat. The mad bastard turned again and ran down the stairs.

"You have food poisoning, John. Take care of it."

_What?_

"Oh," John sighed.

Damn it.

* * *

**Hello again.  
**

**The little fic I'll be posting will be a rewriting of the goodbye scene. It **won't** be a fix fic in anyway, it is actually absolutely heartbreaking and worse than canon. That scene just breaks my heart and I wanted to pour my feelings into something that showed it. So, you have been warned. It'll be +/- 1800 words. I hope you find in yourself to read it once I have posted and not hate me for it.**  
**I'll probably be posting it in the next days.**

**(:**

**I have to thank Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.**

**If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com**


	6. Chapter 6

**In this chapter:**

_"It had been two days since the party, two days since Sherlock had run away from him with a broken hand, giving no explanation._

_John still asked himself how the detective had gained that injury. Had he been tortured?_

_For how long?_

_And where the fuck had Mycroft been when Sherlock had needed him?"_

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

John sat up on the couch and breathed deeply. His head pounded and his body seemed to be trembling with the intensity of it.

_Nightmare_, again. If he could even call it that.

Despite all the darkness in the living room, it was still early afternoon.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the street and trying not to feel like a prisoner. It was a ridiculous notion. It was just food poisoning, for Christ's sake, not the end of the world, but he couldn't help the angst that curled in base of his spine every time he woke up from a nightmare.

He straightened his back and tried to will away the reminiscences of it. He always woke up jittery after that kind of nightmare, and all his worst thoughts ricocheted inside his skull. Every time he was asleep felt like a summary of the two years he had spent thinking Sherlock was dead. Every time he opened his eyes he had to follow the ritual of remembering and forgetting, almost crying and almost laughing hysterically over the fact that Sherlock had died, and then he hadn't.

The thought that Sherlock being alive still caused him that much pain made John more confused than he could begin to face while treating his damned food poisoning. That should have been his first concern at the moment – not his own never ending monologue about Sherlock and his death, Sherlock and their life and just... _Sherlock_.

John's mind was playing tricks on him. For the past two days John had been dreaming about _conjectures_, making assumptions about what had happened to Sherlock while he was away. He had tossed and turned in his sleep, while his brain supplied him with distorted imagery of what Sherlock could have endured, and John had no possible way of knowing for sure.

Sherlock would never tell him, he knew _that_ much.

Sherlock always appeared bloodied and beaten in John's dreams. But now his bruised and broken form stood in the middle of a dark room while a group of unknown faces laughed at his suffering and abused his body. In John's nightmares, Sherlock never let out a word.

He tried to shake off the feeling that Sherlock might have done exactly that.

John would never know. He hadn't been there to help Sherlock in real life, just as he could never change the inevitable outcome of his nightmares.

_Death_. Over and over again.

John felt nausea remembering the violence _he_ had inflicted on Sherlock on the day he had reappeared.

In some ways, John felt like the culprit in those nightmares because he could never do a damn thing. It made him want to crawl out of his skin, to dream of Sherlock's pain and be the one to have caused it. His stomach turned and turned, clearly trying to climb out of his mouth.

John swallowed hard and breathed deeply but shakily.

It had been two days since the party, two days since Sherlock had run away from him with a broken hand, giving no explanation.

John still asked himself how the detective had gained that injury. Had he been tortured?

For how long?

_And where the fuck had Mycroft been when Sherlock had needed him?_

John came back over to the couch and dropped his body heavily on it.

_I__t wasn't his fault_, John told himself for the thousandth time. Sherlock working alone for Mycroft wasn't John's fault, just as those two years hadn't been his fault. Sherlock had left him alone, John couldn't have known – that had been exactly the point, apparently. Mycroft, Molly, and every tramp in London had been allowed to know, but not John.

_John would have got in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes._

He drank what was left of the lukewarm glass of water on the coffee table. It went burning down his throat like a mouthful of sand.

John looked at the fabric samples Mary had left for him in the morning. _Wedding stuff,_ as they got used to calling them. A dozen tones of pink that looked exactly the same. For the life of him, John couldn't see any difference between salmon and baby pink. John only knew one shade of pink – the _pink-lady_ pink – and that one wasn't among the samples.

He didn't know what Mary could possibly gain from waiting for his opinion, but he understood that she needed him to assist her. Mary didn't have a mother to help her choose one dress from the other, or to help her pick the best flowers. In a way, she and John were the same. John didn't have any one else either. He could relate.

Mary at least had her friends. John, on the other hand...

He picked up the pieces of different fabrics and rubbed them between his forefinger and thumb, pretending he had some idea of what he was doing. They kind of felt all the same, and John wasn't the one who was going to wear any of it anyway. He was completely hopeless at _wedding stuff_.

He tried to get to the point and selected two random pinks that looked just as pinkish as all the others, but were nearer him. It was as good a criteria as any, he supposed. He rubbed them in his hands again and thought that maybe one was smoother than the other. He would pick that one.

_There_, he thought. _Checked_.

He still had cake samples and all kind of pastries to try out – which he couldn't do. Just the thought of all that sugar in his stomach was more than he could bear. John had looked at the fluffy frostings and creamy fillings once, and it had turned his stomach in revulsion. He suspected they all tasted the same, since he didn't really have a sweet tooth. Mary could eat a whole cake and be good to go, but John could only eat a thin slice and that was that. Funny enough, his time at Baker Street had been when he had enjoyed more cakes than ever in his life. Mrs Hudson's goodies were simply irresistible, and they had had the unbeatable appeal of not have being baked in _Sherlock's_ kitchen.

John snorted to himself remembering the time he had tried to use their oven. One could trust Sherlock to leave two different species of poisonous spiders living freely there – _'It's for experiment, John, obviously'._ John had given up complaining and had sat on the floor laughing until tears of mirth had ran down his face. Frankly, with Sherlock it was the only possible outcome sometimes.

Other times, all John wanted to do was to curl in a ball and pretend Sherlock had never happened to him.

He sighed and laid down on the couch, turning on his side. He could feel the beginning of a headache – or maybe it was the _middle_ of it, since he had been feeling it intermittently for days. Thinking about all the Sherlock drama didn't help at all.

His whole body ached. His insides were still fighting the damn caper sauce. Nobody else had presented any reaction to it, but John's immune system had been failing him for quite some time. He asked himself how _Sherlock,_ of all people, had known exactly what caused John illness. Of course he had known, he was Sherlock Holmes, but how had he not deleted John's choice of sauce? John himself still didn't know why he had had that reaction. Apparently he would have to call Sherlock about his own medical history, and how fucked up was _that_?

It made him feel silly. There had been a time when he had been that person to Sherlock too. Now Sherlock sustained injuries and John was the last one to know.

John tried to clear that cloud of thoughts. He was getting more and more tired of denying the first instinct of being there again for Sherlock each day.

After the party, John had been left wondering what to do if Sherlock didn't accept to be his best man.

It shouldn't have been so surprising, but John was suddenly presented with the obvious fact that he didn't have anyone else who could possibly play the part. John had some rugby mates, sure. He still had contact with old army friends, of course. But not a single one of those people was _that_ important.

No one had been as important as Sherlock.

Still was.

Sherlock _was_ important. John was torn between the obvious realisation and wanting to deny it, even if uselessly.

Sherlock was _damn_ important. So much so that John could barely forget the fact that he had sustained a broken hand and John wasn't around to help him.

John might have been pretending that he didn't see that, but it was the truth.

Sherlock had changed everything in so many ways – good and bad – and John couldn't just sit in the dark and will their story away. It wasn't as simple as that. His own mind was having none of it, his own body reminded him again and again that Sherlock would _always_ be there.

It was _infuriating_ – it really was. After everything John had gone through, he had to admit to himself that he didn't have anyone else.

And it wasn't because other people in John's life weren't worth it, but because John had never felt the need to have anyone else around while Sherlock was there.

Lying in the darkness, John looked at his own feet and sighed at the admission.

Girlfriends had come and gone, and John had met his other mates now and again, but Sherlock had been there every day, right in front of him, being obnoxious and brilliant in a way that had left John out of breath from day one.

John had immersed himself in it – with the life they had, the crimes, the blog, the flat. John had coated himself in _Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson_. He had done that, _he_ had been the one to let his whole life float around a mad bastard in a dramatic coat. And he had fucking loved it, had basked in it, had cherished it.

John had had a fine little bubble that had been destroyed in the most cruel and excruciating way. It was to be expected that John still didn't have anyone else. Two years later and he still didn't have anything else apart from Mary – beautiful Mary who had saved him from a life of oblivion.

John rubbed his hands together and looked at his own fingers. He instinctively soothed his trigger finger.

What did it say about him that he had laced himself in that life so completely that now it glowed red in his memory whenever he dreamed about it? Most important of all: what did it say about him that he still couldn't see himself having a life disconnected from it?

John had to be honest. He lifted his head and looked at the ceiling. He had never been a coward, he had to accept the inexorable truth.

Sherlock wouldn't go away. He would never be away from John's life. Not only because he was a git, but because he was John's best friend. He had been John's whole world when John had needed him the most.

Sherlock wouldn't go away because John would never tell him to. There, that was the truth. He would never really want it, never mind how many damn hours he spent on the couch willing his nausea away.

Sherlock was a train wreck, sure. He had always been, and he had run John over a long time ago.

The inexorable truth was that John wouldn't change him for the world. He had to admit that for the sake of any shred of mental stability he could still hold for himself.

If Sherlock didn't accept to be John's best man, John would simply not have one. There wasn't anyone else for the job, John _did not want_ anyone else for best man.

Obvious as it could seem, the thought actually felt a bit freeing. It was like accepting death, like stopping praying for a miracle.

John laughed out loud at the analogy. Only Sherlock could be so traumatic that John could compare him to _dying_ and not feel inappropriate in the least. Maybe John was so fucked up that he had a death wish or something. That was one way of explaining the inevitable pull he always felt towards Sherlock and the mad possibilities that came with him.

John tried not to worry about Sherlock not accepting to be his best man. Even though it was possible.

John hadn't been around in the last months and had refused to come along to the crime scenes Sherlock had dared to invite him to. It was possible that after being repelled, Sherlock had simply given up on working with him for good. Maybe doing Mycroft's legwork was Sherlock's way of showing that he didn't need Doctor John Watson as his partner anymore.

Well, _screw him_, John thought. His broken hand clearly spoke otherwise. He needed John. Maybe he had never needed John's friendship or comfort or partnership, but he certainly needed John's gun and John to pull the trigger. John would never hesitate to do it if Sherlock was in danger.

John didn't know what he would have to do to be around Sherlock again and maintain his emotional defences, but at that very moment, he discovered that it didn't matter. Trying to stay away wasn't doing him any good - that much was obvious – and John was about to take a giant step in his life, he was about to get married, he didn't want to do it without Sherlock. He had to be there at the wedding with John. It was the only possible way.

Oddly enough, just now John was realising he didn't want his life to be divided between the _time he was the blogger_ and the _time he was a married man_. Sherlock had accepted John as the veteran army-doctor John would always be, they would work it out this new dynamic. Of course they would, John thought.

Because if Sherlock was John's best friend, John was Sherlock's.

He wasn't the only friend Sherlock had anymore – John had a feeling that those two years had changed more than Sherlock would be comfortable admitting. But John was still important. Of course he was.

Of course Sherlock would accept to be his best man.

_Sherlock_... The Hat Detective, the lunatic genius, the high-functioning sociopath, the undead man.

John swallowed thickly and felt his heart sink with woe. Sherlock _might_ not accept it. John hadn't really asked anything, he had let Janine do it, for Christ's sake. Maybe Sherlock had run away from the boredom of the oh-so-normal life John now lived. Sherlock might not want any part in it. Maybe that talk had been Sherlock trying to turn it down smoothly.

John was getting angry at himself. Now he was thinking of Sherlock as some reasonable human being with any notion of social convention. Sherlock would never let an opportunity to tell John not to be boring or to roll his eyes at John's outdated sense of adequacy. It was just how things were. Sherlock hadn't been trying to turn John down. If he eventually did that, he would be spirited and cunning, obnoxious and hateful. John would take all of it.

He walked to the guest room and opened the door of wardrobe. Mary had hung Sherlock's coat and scarf pristinely and suggested that John took them to Sherlock at Baker Street. John had refused to do it, but now he thought that maybe they would be his best excuse to pop at Sherlock's flat unannounced.

_Sherlock's flat_. The thought still rang on his own brain like a siren. He made a mental note of never saying that out loud.

Without a second thought, John smoothed the lapel of the coat, feeling the rough fabric and acknowledging the fact that he could tell Sherlock's coats from any other coats by touch alone. It had been a surviving technique and it had helped them more times than John could count. It didn't matter how many ridiculous posh and unnecessarily flipping coats Sherlock had – and he did have too many – John would always be able to tell them apart. It had apparently been so obvious that Sherlock had deemed necessary to make John see a bloodied coat to make _the lie_ more credible.

If John were Sherlock, he would be able to tell where Sherlock had been by simply sniffing the coat and the scarf.

John wish he could do that. He asked himself if Sherlock had used this coat and this scarf wherever he had been beaten or had broken his arm. Sherlock would probably be able to tell in which country the coat had been. _Definitely._ He would definitely be able to do it. If the coat was John's Sherlock would be able to tell the mood John was in when he had put it on.

The thought made John snort, but it was humourless. John had always been so plain and simple. Sherlock had played him as he had saw fit. He would always do it, John would have no illusions about it anymore.

He took the scarf of the hanger and squeezed it between his hands, then brought it to his nose, taking a deep breath, trying to sharpen his mind and be Sherlock for a minute. He tried to associate the smell with any clue he could gather, but it was obviously fruitless.

The only thing John could scent was Sherlock. And maybe Baker Street. Or maybe one and the other were so intrinsically connected in John's olfactory channels that John could not tell them apart. There could never be one without the other – not to John, anyway.

He hung the scarf again and closed the door of the wardrobe. He would return it and the coat to Sherlock personally.

Maybe he could trick him into being his best man in the process.

Tricking _Sherlock Holmes_...

Yeah, right.

* * *

**Hey guys. As you might have noticed, I haven't posted my little heartbreaking fic yet. Blame my beta and her feelings for that. Hahaha. Anyway, I have to thank Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this. **

******If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com** or leave me a message!  



	7. Chapter 7

**In this chapter:**

_"John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of wrongness that was washing over him."_

* * *

**CHAPTER 7_  
_**

John got off the tube feeling bold. It was the adrenaline rush that had always driven him when dealing with all things Sherlock. He would just walk in and tell the detective that _no_, he did not have any one else and he did not want any other person to be his best man. It was the simple truth.

Yes, that was good, that would work.

John had been repeating this mantra the whole way to Baker Street. He wasn't the kind of guy to come up with some sort of scheme to get what he wanted. He had thought about tricking Sherlock into being his best man, and it had been amusing, but it wouldn't be possible. He was the boring John Watson, the one who simply asked for things and talked about them.

At least _some_ times.

_Rare_ times. Times like this one when what was at stake was too precious for him to let go.

John would've preferred if Sherlock had just gone with it at the dinner party and had accepted to be his best man without further comment. _'Obviously I have been John's best friend all along. Of course I am going to be the best man__,'_ he could have said. But he hadn't, and had run down the stairs without glancing back.

As he walked down the street, John's calm wavered. He squeezed the familiar coat and scarf more tightly. That had been a pathetic excuse, but he actually had to return Sherlock's belongings to him.

He was feeling quite better that day, and had gone to work at the clinic like any normal day. He was so happy for getting out of the house that he didn't mind Mrs. Starkey's ear infection nor little Henry's swallowed nicker. At least it gave him some resemblance of normalcy. Sherlock would probably laugh at his tediousness, but the fact was that John actually liked being there for the community, for real people.

Being Sherlock's doctor had always given John a taste of the exceptional. Sherlock was this kind of extraordinarily designed human being that would never have boring food poisoning like John. He barely ate, but had more energy than any other person John had ever known. He had the craziest sleeping pattern, but would always be perfectly groomed and put together when the fancy struck him.

Well, at least he had been like that. For all John knew, Sherlock might be in a eating spree or be a trained high cuisine chef now. John snorted, approaching the familiar door. What he did know, though, was that Sherlock would never just have food poisoning or a cold. He would have acid burns, or a broken limb caused by international criminals or the like.

John sighed at himself. He had tried to forget about that, but it seemed impossible. If he still felt bold after asking Sherlock to be his best man, he would use his Captain Watson tone and talk the detective into telling him the truth. If Sherlock was even capable of doing that – John had his doubts.

Getting in front of 221, John stopped dead on his tracks. He thought he would have to ring the bell – and it had baffled him – but apparently he needn't have bothered with that. The door was open and coming out of it was a figure John hoped he had missed.

Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella.

The British Government looked at him as if John was an amazing piece of a child's puzzle. John had not missed him at all.

"Ah, John," Mycroft said, like he hadn't send Sherlock to his fake death and broken John's heart in the process.

"You know, if you could only suspect how much I'd like to run you over with your own damn car, you wouldn't be standing in my way right now," John said, surprising himself. Sherlock was responsible for his own acts, but John now had some idea of where he had get his cold heart from.

Mycroft had the guts to laugh. A humourless laugh – or at least John thought so. He suspected that he wouldn't know when it came to Mycroft.

"I see the civilian life hasn't done your anger problem any good," Mycroft said, looking casually at the tip of his umbrella. "But you have always been such a special goldfish, haven't you, Doctor Watson?"

He then looked straight into John's eyes and for a moment John was disconcerted by it. He couldn't tell what it meant, but those eyes weren't the same eyes John was used to face when dealing with the Holmes elder brother.

John narrowed his eyes at him and had the feeling he was being insulted. He decided it wasn't worth to dwell on it.

"I'll just make my way upstairs, then, shall I?" John said, getting past Mycroft and heading to the stairs.

"Of course. Enjoy the couch, John," Mycroft said, enigmatically, walking to the black car waiting for him.

John didn't know what that was about and discarded it as unimportant. He climbed up the stairs listening to the little noises coming from 221B.

John could hear the small clinks of glass – probably microscope slides being handled, or petri dishes being rearranged in the fridge.

All the noises suddenly stopped and John knew that Sherlock was aware that someone was coming. He asked himself if he knew it was him.

The two doors were open, but the kitchen was apparently empty. John stepped into the living room when Sherlock was just coming over to the door.

"John?" He asked, and the sound reached John's ears even before they had made eye contact. The thought that his footsteps were still known to Sherlock made John smile a little.

Sherlock was dressed in one of his sulking outfits. Pyjamas and dressing gown – John felt glad about it. It soothed him somehow. Sherlock was frowning at him. "What?" John ask.

"You are better," Sherlock said, simply. He didn't say that John _looked_ better, and he absolutely did not ask, because he certainly knew just by looking at John how his stomach was.

John cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you for asking," he said, giving Sherlock _a look_. Sherlock smirked and shrugged, and his eyes had mirth on them. "How did you know that, by the way?" John asked, trusting Sherlock to understand he was talking about his getting sick in the first place.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and huffed. "Caper, John, it has never agreed with you."

John looked at him as if he were mad. John had never in his damn life had any reaction to caper. He wasn't that stupid, for Christ's sake, and he was a bloody doctor.

Sherlock sighed as if John were being difficult. "It has never agreed with you, you just always blamed on something else. The wine, the desert," he stated, motioning his broken hand vaguely. "It's not something you are used to eating, but whenever you did, it always made you feel queasy. You probably had too much of it that night, so... There," he finished, lamely, which struck John as strange.

He looked up at Sherlock and could swear he seemed surprised by his own deduction. John filed the thought together with others that didn't make any sense.

"Well, don't you think you should have _told me_ about it?" John asked. He forced his memory and remembered one time or another when he had felt funny after eating caper sauce at dinner. He had always blamed the drinks or the amount of food. Of course Sherlock would be right about that.

Now Sherlock was the one looking at him as if _John_ was mad. "I told you about it," he said simply, frowning.

"I mean _before_. What if I had some stronger reaction to it?" John asked, because it could have been allergies.

Sherlock snorted, arrogantly. "I would have noticed."

"Well, you haven't always been around, have you?" John said without thinking it through first and regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth.

He was right, he knew that. Sherlock hadn't been there for two years, but John hadn't come here for this. He had come to ask him something and to return Sherlock's clothes. John thought about how years before they would have joked about returning Sherlock's clothes like this. _People__ will __definitely talk_, one would say. _They already do little else_, the other would agree, and they would smirk and life would go on.

John got a hold of himself and offered Sherlock the coat and the scarf. The gloves were in the coat's pockets.

Sherlock took them gingerly, not looking at John's eyes, which made John feel hollow.

"Well, I was there the other night," Sherlock said, with hints of sulking in his tone and it made John feel a tone lighter.

And yes, he had been. When John had needed it, Sherlock had been there.

"Yes, thank you," John said, sincerely. Sherlock just gave him a curt nod.

They were still standing close to the door, which John only stopped to notice when Sherlock walked over to hang his coat and scarf. He was surprised when the other man stopped and sniffled them, smoothing the fabrics with a small smile on his face. John asked himself if Sherlock would know he had tried to deduce his whereabouts by them, but he decided not even Sherlock could be that smart. And John had made sure not to leave any marks on them. He knew his friend well enough not to risk it.

When Sherlock walked back and stepped more fully into the living room, John's eyes followed him and his breath got caught in his throat.

He suddenly knew what Mycroft had meant by _'Enjoy the couch'_.

There, right in front of the fireplace, there was an armchair. Sherlock's armchair.

And only that.

John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of _wrongness_ that was washing over him.

Since the first day he had stepped into 221B there had always been two armchairs there. John had never known why, and he had never bothered to ask. After the first month, it had been obvious that that chair could have only been there for _him_. He had felt comfortable in it from the very first time, Sherlock knew, he had said that much.

It was John's chair, perfect for him.

Not anymore, apparently.

When receiving a client, Sherlock would sit in his armchair and the client would sit right in front of him, in a random chair. John didn't have a place to be there anymore.

"John?" Sherlock asked, probably not for the first time.

John looked at him without acknowledging it. His eyes flew back to the empty spot.

John had absolutely no right to feel bad about it. That wasn't his house anymore, he had his own house with his fiancée. That empty spot shouldn't make him feel so lost, but it was paralysing him.

It didn't matter. It was just a chair. He could sit on the couch and have tea with Sherlock, or help him, if he wanted.

But then again he would have kept John's chair if he still wanted that. Surely.

John felt completely stupid by the thought that he wanted a best man, but didn't even have his chair anymore. He decided to get it over with. If Sherlock didn't accept, then John would have some replanning to do about the wedding – or maybe about moving to Anguilla with Mary and pretending London had never happened.

"John?" Sherlock asked again and snapped his fingers in front of John's face. _The bastard_.

John torn his eyes away from the _not his armchair's_ spot.

Sherlock was looking uncomfortable, his eyes alternating between John's and his own armchair. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

"Can we talk?" John asked to put them both out of that misery. He now just wanted to be done with it. He would ask and he would accept the answer and life would go on.

Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded, pointing to the couch. It just made Mycroft's words echo louder in John's head. John would not enjoy the couch, that wasn't the place to have this kind of conversation. John wanted to be face to face with Sherlock. He wanted to sit in his damn armchair, that was the truth. He felt suddenly near of throwing a tantrum. Sherlock had probably rubbed off on him.

Neither one of them sat. John looked for any other place they could sit in front of each other, but there simply wasn't any. The desk which had also always been his wasn't there either. It was a _bachelor_ flat, through and through.

Not that Sherlock hadn't been a bachelor before, of course.

John's brain was short-circuiting. It was almost as if Sherlock had erased his presence altogether. John asked himself if new clients even knew John existed at all. He also asked himself what right he had to be angry about it.

But of course he had, for fuck's sake. It had been his life too. He had dedicated himself wholeheartedly to it. Sherlock couldn't just erase him from it. He couldn't do _that_.

They were just things, though. They weren't _John's_ things, they had come with the flat. John had just used them for a while.

They were just things. Things Sherlock didn't want anymore, that were useless. And they weren't any kind of deeper metaphor.

"Kitchen?" Sherlock asked, without bothering to look at John. They both entered the kitchen and sat at the table, in their usual spots.

John wasn't soothed by the fact that Sherlock had kept that chair. It made him question why he had bothered at all. Maybe it was being used. John knew Molly came over frequently. If Sherlock had kept that chair, there in the middle of his experiments, it surely didn't have anything to do with _John_.

He was being petty, he knew. He just couldn't be bothered to control his own thoughts. They were his own, he could think them as much as he damn well pleased.

John forced himself to stop rambling internally and looked straight at Sherlock. He would ask and get the hell away from there. The half empty flat was suffocating him.

Sherlock was looking at him intently, expecting John to get the fuck on with it, probably. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"John," he started awkwardly, "About the chair..."

_Hell no_, John wasn't having this conversation. Not here, not ever.

"It's your flat, none of my business," John said and it sounded strained even on his own ears. He was suddenly aware of how long he had been silent, just taking everything in. Sherlock was certainly aware of everything John was thinking. _Pathetic_.

"Yes," Sherlock snorted, but he looked angry.

"Right," John said, not wanting to know why. Sherlock's redecorating really wasn't of his concern. "So," he continued, not leaving room for Sherlock to say anything else. He would just ask. "It's okay if you don't want to be my best man, but, you know, I have to know for sure," he said.

Shit.

That wasn't what he meant to say. John told himself to get a fucking grip. He wasn't there to tell Sherlock that it was okay if Sherlock didn't want to be there, he was there to tell him exactly the opposite. It wasn't okay. It wouldn't be okay, no. He had to tell him the truth, John owed _himself_ that much.

Sherlock had been staring at him for almost half a minute and John was getting creeped out.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly focused on John's again. He opened and closed his mouth twice after finally say anything.

"You don't want me to be your best man," he said and it wasn't a question.

John wanted to throttle him because _how_ could anyone be so smart and stupid at the same time was beyond John.

"No," John said, trying to stay calm. "That isn't what I said. I said _if you_ don't want to be the best man, it's okay."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

John sighed. There simply wasn't the possibility of winning.

He looked from his hands to Sherlock's eyes. "No," he admitted.

"Is it _not_?" Sherlock asked surprised. He frowned at John and for once John couldn't blame him, he wasn't really making any sense. "I don't understand," the detective said.

"I know. Just listen, will you listen without getting lost inside your head?"

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, I can hold to a conversation when I want to."

John was skeptical. "Okay, and do you _want_ to?" He retorted.

"Yes," Sherlock said, sounding stubborn. John would never admit, but he liked the sound of it.

"I _want_ you to be my best man. I would be actually really happy if you accepted to be. Are you following?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. John smiled at him because Sherlock actually seemed like he was paying attention.

"Although I have to accept if you don't want to be my best man, I have no other person to ask this–"

"I'm sure Gary would be–"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, simply. "His name is Greg. And no, he wouldn't because I _don't want_ him to be. I'm asking _you_. _You_ are my best friend," John stopped, searching for something else to say. It was bloody difficult to say things like that and still keep his barriers up. "It'll be you, or it won't be anyone."

Sherlock was looking at him searchingly. John let himself be read because he knew it was Sherlock's way of trying to make sense of what John had said. People understood words by the feelings in them, Sherlock deduced the feelings on people's faces.

"So... I'm still...," Sherlock trailed off, unarticulated. He taped his cast with his left hand. "I'm still your best... _friend_?" He asked, and the last word sounded as if Sherlock believed the very idea of it was absurd. John asked himself if he should feel insulted by it.

"What is that supposed to mean? You thought it had changed in four days?" John had already told Sherlock that, it shouldn't be a surprise.

"I didn't think you had meant it," Sherlock shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

John felt mostly sad, because even though Sherlock was trying to act as if he didn't mind, John knew he did. It _had_ to matter to him. John had been around this man since the day they had met, he had tried to keep him safe in all ways he could. Sherlock must have seen it, he must have.

"I've always been here," John said, simply.

That was suddenly too much, he didn't think he should try to convince Sherlock of anything. If he hadn't get the message in all those months they had lived and worked together and were around each other every day, John didn't know what else he could say or do to show it. "I was always here," John repeated. And no, he couldn't say anything else. Sherlock had to understand, but John couldn't explain.

"I know. But you always take care of everyone, you save lives, it's what you do," Sherlock said dismissively.

"No, I took care of _you_," John said, stubbornly. "I was always here, I took care of you, I saved _your_ life," he swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Look... It's my wedding, one of the most important days of my life and I want to be there with the two most important people for me. Mary and you. Do you accept?"

Sherlock looked stricken. The light reflected in his pale face and his eyes looked almost ghostly. John was hit by what it would mean to him if Sherlock just said _no_. It would break the heart he still hadn't had the time to amend.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and his voice was steady and strong. He sounded like he meant it and it made John bask in a relief that must have shown on his face. "Of course I do... It will be my honour, John."

John smiled truly for the first time since he had stepped out of the clinic that day. He felt giddy with. "Good, that's good," he said, letting out a nervous giggle. He cleared his throat. "I have the feeling you will understand more about this wedding stuff than me," he snorted. "I've never seen so many pinks in my life. I'm sure they're all the same."

"It's _salmon_, John," Sherlock said, and the word rolled on his tongue as if he had invented it. "But there can also be salmon pink, coral, and coral pink. Pale pink, baby pink, spanish pink, medium light pink. These seem to be the tones Mary would favour. Depending on the fabric, the tones can vary. The incidence of light on the fabric can also be a factor, of course," he rambled.

John was struck dumber than ever. What the hell?

"How do you even _know_ that?"

"...Mary would probably go with salmon or light salmon pink, the bridesmaid would complement the white of her dress without obfuscating it..."

John snorted. Of course Sherlock had deduced Mary's preference for pink. John rubbed his face. He couldn't help the loud laughter that was bubbling inside him. "Not even one word about the pastries? You're getting slow there, Hat Detective."

"Meringue over chocolate," Sherlock said, proudly.

John laughed harder, drying small tears that appeared in the corner of his eyes. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had laughed like that. He was so glad for it.

Sherlock's eyes were smiling at him, John was sure of it. They were staring at each other and for a moment John swore everything would be fine with them – with all of them.

"Woo hoo!"

John listened to the familiar voice and felt a burst of warmth in his chest. He looked at the kitchen door just in time to see Mrs Hudson open a big smile at the two of them.

"Oh, hello, John!" She said, coming over to him, not before stopping to pat Sherlock's head. John was sure she was going to ask him if he had behaved.

John stood up and gave Mrs Hudson a proper hug. It felt like hugging the life he had had there, like hugging _all_ of it. Sherlock must've noticed because he was observing the scene and he had a rare look in his eyes. John wanted to keep the image in is mind.

Mrs Hudson seemed a bit stricken by John's sudden hug, but she patted his cheek anyway. "It's so good to have you here. Are you boys solving any murders?"

John smiled at Mrs Hudson's question. Trust her to be used to crimes being around Sherlock that much. "No, Mrs Hudson," John asked, lightly. "I came here today to ask him to be my best man."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said, simply. She smiled at John, but looked quickly at Sherlock. "Have you accepted?" She asked directly to the detective and she didn't sound as joyful as she did a second before. John frowned at it.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, standing up and heading to the living room, with Mrs Hudson right on his heels.

John felt as if his happy bubble had burst and he had no idea why. He walked to the living room too, as if treading dangerous waters.

It was unbelievable how he could be in a room and still feel absent of it. He was right there, but the half furniture seemed to call his name in a distant voice, as if John were being sucked out of the room. The single armchair taunted him. The single desk laughed at him. He would go out of the door and it would be as if he had never been there.

_Would it?_ He asked himself. They were just things. They didn't matter.

John paid attention to the talk Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were having.

"I can't believe I leave for two days and you redecorate your flat," she was saying, while looking around.

Two days. So the change had happened after the dinner.

John wished he could understand. He had told Sherlock he was his best friend and Sherlock had mostly erased any memory of John as far as his eyes could see.

No, it didn't make any sense to John. He tried to dismiss the thoughts, told himself he would adjust to it. Even if everything around insisted on reminding him that there should be home. Those two figures standing in front of him would always mean _home_ in some sort of way. John would readjust.

"So, John, I'm sure you're aware of what it is next week," Mrs Hudson said, pretending she wasn't fishing for his answer.

John looked directly to Sherlock, who mouthed the word _'birthday'_ to him.

"Of course," John answered. "How could I ever forget your birthday, Mrs Hudson?" He walked over to her and she enveloped him in a hug. John wasn't fooled for a second that she had believed him, but he accepted the hug anyway, and thanked Sherlock, who was smirking at him, the bastard.

Mrs Hudson was straightening the lapel of his coat. "I'm sure Sherlock has told you about my birthday dinner already," she said, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"I have not," the detective said. "I thought you would have given up this ludicrous idea. I can take you out to dinner and be done with it," he said.

Mrs Hudson tutted at him and John smiled at Sherlock offering himself to take her to dinner. It was actually sweet of him.

"Are you trying to monopolize our landlady?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled at him. John didn't know why, but he was being presented with one of those blinding smiles. "What?" He asked, smiling back.

"_Our_ landlady?" Sherlock asked and it didn't stop his smile for a second. John asked himself if he should feel awkward by his mistake, which he didn't.

_Home_, he thought.

"No need to fuss, you too," Mrs Hudson interrupted. "And you, Sherlock, can save your money to pay someone to clean this rubbish instead."

Sherlock frowned. "I have you for that."

"She's not your housekeeper, you know," John said, and laughed. Sherlock was scowling, which made everything funnier.

"Ah, John, thank you. I wish you had remembered that while you still lived here, though, some hoovering wouldn't have hurt."

And Sherlock laughed right back at him.

John took the cushion from the couch and flung it at his head.

"See?" Mrs Hudson said. "Look at the mess you two make."

Just like that, John could pretend everything was fine.

He purposefully ignored how the empty spot in front of the fireplace threatened to swallow him whole.

* * *

**Thank you for following and for your reviews! I hope you have liked this one too.**

******Also, I am a BIG FAN of meta posts about this show. I'm not gonna tell you how to read the story, but this meta (Leavin' the Back Door Open 'Til You Come Back - it's on tumblr, you should totally look it up) was totally on my mind when I wrote this chapter. It's one of my favourite metas of all time and it draws a parallel between 221B flat and Sherlock Holmes.**

**I have to thank Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this. You should check out her Teenlock, by the way.**

**If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr. (It's on my profile page)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm so sorry for the delay. me and my beta were having technical problems.  
I hope I'll be back to posting on thrusday this week.  
Thank you for following this story! Let me know what you think!  
**

**In this chapter:**

_"As ever, you're as observant as a blind hedgehog," Sherlock rolled his eyes at him._

_"Hedgehog?" John asked, frowning. "Good evening to you too, by the way."_

_"Good evening, John," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Now come upstairs with me, I have great crime scene photos to show you," he said, already walking to the door. _

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

Mary snuggled John in the back of the cab. They were tired after the day of work, but Mrs Hudson's birthday dinner simply wasn't an event one could skip. John thought she would probably murder any one of the carefully selected guests who decided not to show up. John and Mary had barely had time to go home to shower and change, but they had happily hopped into the first cab that had appeared.

Mary had found a lovely box collection of all Jane Austen's novels in hard cover with gold spine that John was sure Mrs Hudson would love. Mary and she had not met each other more than a couple of times, but she knew how important Mrs Hudson was to John. In many ways, that night was like a family dinner, almost Mother's Day, and John smiled looking out of the window.

John's family included one Sherlock Holmes, who had been busy for days with a case or another. They hadn't been working together, but John had received some calls asking for his medical opinion. He suspected Sherlock had already known all the answers, but John appreciated being remembered anyway.

Life seemed to be getting on track in a way that scared John to death. He wasn't used to things being smooth and happy, so it seemed like the calm before a storm. His nightmares were always there to remind him that life was never simply that easy.

John felt Mary's body weight over his shoulder and knew she was falling asleep. He nudged her lightly and planted a kiss on the top of her head, while rearranging them so he had his arm around her shoulders.

"Do you want a pillow?" He asked, keeping his voice low.

Mary yawned and smiled. "Nah, I'm making do with you."

Fifteen minutes later they were getting out of the cab in front of Baker Street. 221B's lights were out – John could not stop himself from noticing. Maybe Sherlock hadn't been able to escape Mrs Hudson's grasp and was being held hostage in her kitchen while wearing an apron and trying her new sauce or something. The thought made John giggle to himself. Mary looked at him amused.

They stopped in front of the door and John frowned. It was still strange to him to not use a key. Since the day John had helped Sherlock to figure out Lord Moran's plan, John had decided not to act as if he lived there anymore. It had been too painful and he was secretly afraid Sherlock himself would ask John to give it back.

He still had it, but the right to use it... _That_ was another matter.

Mary squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. "I'm sure you could just open the door, they wouldn't mind."

John looked at her and smiled, self-conscious. He was beginning to think he was an open book to everyone, not just to Sherlock. "I haven't got my key with me."

"I'll just ring the bell, then, okay?" She asked, already pressing the button.

Mary nudged him, forcing John to stay alone in front of the door. He frowned at her, but before he could say anything, someone opened the door.

The _someone_ was a lovely old lady who John did not recognize, but who looked absolutely delighted to see him.

"John Watson!" She exclaimed.

"Yes, that is me," he answered awkwardly and smiled. She didn't seem like she was going to say anything else. "I'm sorry, but you are...?"

The old lady seemed disconcerted. "Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, I feel like I've known you for so long... I completely forgot... Here," she extended one hand to him, "I'm Louise Reid, Martha's sister."

"Oh, of course," John said, relaxing. He took her hand and let himself be swiped down for a peck on the cheek. It really was like meeting an aunt. John liked her immediately, because _how could he not?_

"I've been wanting to meet you for so long," she was saying while motioning him and Mary to come along.

"This is Mary, my fiancée," John told her, and Mrs Reid hugged her with no hint of uncertainty. She had barely entered his family and was already one of John's favourite. But then again, in this tiny family, everyone was John's favourite.

The three of them entered Mrs Hudson's flat and were met by the amazing smell of her cooking. John's mouth watered. He noticed Mary was having the same reaction.

"You have no idea how many times I have escaped downstairs to eat her food," he whispered in her ear.

"I totally understand that," she smiled, looking around.

They all entered the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was applying the final touches to what John recognized as a roast lamb. He had eaten before and, _by god_, had he missed it.

"There you are," Mrs Hudson said, while putting the roast back in the oven.

She came by and hugged John and Mary. "I'm so glad you came... As if you could have gotten away with anything else."

"I would never miss your cooking, Mrs Hudson," he laughed. John took the bag Mary was handing him and offered to Mrs Hudson. "Happy birthday!"

"Oh," Mrs Hudson tutted at him, even though smiling. "You didn't have to worry about presents, John."

"Ah, come on, you deserve it for taking care of us. God knows how we haven't driven you mad yet," John joked.

"Now _that_ is true, young man," she gave him a kiss. "Well, everything is in order here. Let's go to the sitting room so I can open my present," she said, dangling the bag with an excited expression on her face.

They all gathered in the living room and Mrs Reid served them all with wine while they ate little asparagus and blue cheese muffins Mrs Hudson had brought from the kitchen on a tray. They were delicious and John tried very hard not to let out inelegant noises while digging into them. He looked sideways at Mary, who was eating with her eyes closed.

"God, this is divine," she sighed, after swallowing her first bite. "Really, absolutely incredible," and took another bite.

"I'm so glad you like," Mrs Reid smiled. "I made these ones. It's a personal favourite of mine."

"Make it one of mine too," John said.

Mrs Reid looked proud. "And you can eat away, John. I didn't go anywhere near caper while making this," she winked at him.

Mary smirked at John, who was feeling touched by the gesture, but also curious about _how_ she had know in the first place.

"That was very kind of you, but how-"

"Sherlock has made it crystal clear that you aren't to eat caper anymore, you know," Mrs Hudson interjected. "He would probably destroy all my walls if I served you anything with it."

Mary giggled at John's frown.

Mrs Hudson put her glass on the coffee table and opened her present, taking care not to tear the paper. She inhaled audibly and John could tell she was surprised.

"Oh, John...," she looked at him with watery eyes. "What a _gorgeous_ thing." She showed the box to her sister, who was apparently also a Jane Austen's fan.

"To tell you the truth, it was Mary's find. I didn't know they could come in this lovely box set. But I know you would like them."

"Oh, it _is_ lovely. I'll rearrange all my bookshelf to put it on a good spot."

"It will surely look good on _my_ bookshelf," Mrs Reid giggled, hugging the box to her chest.

"Oh, no, you stay away from my books," Mrs Hudson said, taking the present back. "She is slowly transferring all my books to her house," she told Mary and John, while her sister shook her head at her, clearly denying all the accusations. "I had to hide the John Keats Sherlock brought me the other day."

"I'll look through your things while you're sleeping," Mrs Reid shrugged.

John was having fun watching them banter. He had never stopped to think about what fraternity would mean in old age. He felt his heart tug thinking about Harry and how they would probably never have this.

Something caught John's attention, though.

"Does Sherlock even know who John Keats was?" He asked, amused.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, knowingly. "Well, he knew enough to buy me this antique edition. I'll show you when Lou isn't around, she isn't trustworthy around books."

Mrs Reid dismissed Mrs Hudson's last words. "That's right, he didn't know the Earth went around the sun," she mused.

John raised his eyebrows at her, surprised. Did people still remember that?

"Oh, don't ask," Mrs Hudson groaned.

"Many people read your blog, John. I'm a fangirl myself," Mrs Reid said, despite Mrs Hudson's protests.

"A bit old to be calling yourself _girl_," Mrs Hudson pointed out to her sister.

"Anyway, _John_," Mrs Reid continued, ignoring it, "I'm a huge fan of you two."

John felt awkward about it, because the first thing he thought of saying was 'I am a huge fan of us too'. He smiled. "Thank you so much. He is the genius, though, I'm just the blogger."

Or _was_ the blogger, John didn't say.

Maybe just _dead weight_ that Sherlock had left behind without looking back.

John cut the cloud of thoughts firmly. He was not going to let it spoil their evening.

"Where is he, by the way?" Mrs Reid asked.

"Ah, who knows these days?" Mrs Hudson told them, standing up and going to the kitchen, to get another bottle of wine and take another look at the roast. Mary went to help her.

"I have no idea either, Mrs Reid," John said.

"Oh, please, call me Lou." She seemed so eager that John felt he couldn't deny her anything. He was probably going to buy her one of the box sets, if only to prevent her from stealing Mrs Hudson's present.

"Of course, Lou," and it sounded wrong to address his _aunt_ in such informal way, but John kept going. "I have no idea either. Probably working on something."

"Of course," she nodded. Her face grew more serious and she looked at John in a way that conveyed all her life experience. "It must have been hard on you, you know... All that."

John felt incapable of being angry at her for talking about it. He nodded and looked at the rim of his empty glass. Just a simple sentence and it couldn't have been more accurate. It had been hard on him. In fact, it had been excruciating.

She patted his hand and he looked up at her. His thoughts must have been clear on his face because she squeezed his hand and didn't let it go.

"I can imagine, John. I've lost my husband and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me," she said, low and heartfelt.

John tried to recoil from the sudden shift in the room. He didn't want to remember those things right now. "Oh, we weren't together like that," he said, idiotically.

"Oh, don't be silly, I know you weren't," she dismissed it, surprising John. "But does it matter? To lose someone you love, having to get used to the idea of them being driven from you, is the worst pain one can feel, dear. It doesn't matter which name one is calling it."

She squeezed John's hand again and let it go. Mrs Hudson's and Mary's voice were growing louder.

He had been struck dumb by her words. He was still holding her gaze and she smiled at him encouragingly.

"I know his coming back doesn't change what you went through," she whispered, almost as if telling him a secret. "It's okay to still feel it."

John tried to smile at her, or maybe thank her, but he couldn't. He knew her words would ricochet inside him all night. There had never been truer words to John.

"Martha let me have a taste of the roast potatoes!" Mary said, joining John on the couch.

He took a sip of his refilled glass of wine and closed his eyes, trying to swallow back the feelings. He didn't feel heavy or defeated, though, which was a novelty in itself. He just felt washed by all the kindness in Mrs Reid's words and how she seemed to understand, not asking anything from him, just trying to make him feel less inadequate.

He opened his eyes again and Mary was looking at him expectantly.

"Are you okay?" She asked, confused.

He smiled at him. "Yes," he answered, honestly.

The door was suddenly opened and Sherlock came in, dramatic as ever. His coat swirled behind him and his presence seemed almost aggressive in the quiet room.

He came to a halt in front of Mrs Hudson, who had stood up to greet him. All the sharpness was melted in one hug. "Good evening, Mrs Hudson," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

John never ceased to be touched by that image. He smiled and hid it with his glass.

The second one to greet Sherlock was Mrs Reid, of course. She could barely contain her excitement over meeting the great Sherlock Holmes, although John suspected she was meeting Mrs Hudson's boy and not the celebrity.

For once, John was not worried about what Sherlock might say. He knew that he would never hurt Mrs Hudson or her sister in any way. It just reaffirmed the familiarity John had been feeling since he had got there.

"Ah, Mrs Reid," Sherlock smiled at her, "-oof," he let out when she hugged him. He looked at John with wide eyes, but John just smiled at him. Sherlock hugged back, a bit reluctantly.

"God, I'm so sorry. I'm embarrassing myself today. It's a huge pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."

"Thanks," Sherlock answered and made it sound like a question.

"I never got the chance to thank you for what you have done."

Sherlock frowned and looked at John as if _John_ should be the one explaining all that.

"Oh, silly man," Mrs Reid said, amused. She entangled her left arm on Mrs Hudson's right one. "For saving Martha from that utter son of bitch," she said, simply.

"Lou!" Mrs Hudson reproached her. "Honestly, your language."

Sherlock was looking at Mrs Reid as if she had just appeared in front of him.

"Well," Mrs Reid sniffled indignantly. "He was a completely twat."

John couldn't help himself, he let out a giggle, which seemed to set off Sherlock too and in a heartbeat all the room was filled with laughter. It was a marvellous sound.

Mary was drying tears of laughter of her eyes. "My god, can we keep her?"

"Oh, we already have," John said, honestly.

They turned to the others again.

"It was my pleasure, Mrs Reid, you can be sure of that," Sherlock said, smiling at Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock came over and Mary gave him a hug.

"Thank you for your help choosing my bridesmaids dresses," she said, patting him on the back. "That was the right salmon."

John frowned. "I was the one who picked it out."

Mary smiled at him indulgently, but turned to Sherlock. "I know it was you, he changed his choice after coming here. I'm not stupid."

"Now, come on, they do look exactly the same," John said, in his own defence.

"As ever, you're as observant as a blind hedgehog," Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"Hedgehog?" John asked, frowning. "Good evening to you too, by the way."

"Good evening, John," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Now come upstairs with me, I have great crime scene photos to show you," he said, already walking to the door.

"But it's Mrs Hudson's birthday!" John argued, even though his legs were already taking him out of the door.

"Oh, she doesn't mind. Do you, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock shouted.

"I'm used to this by now," she said. John could imagine Mrs Hudson tutting at the two of them.

John heard Mrs Reid say "Oh, it's exciting!"

"Since when do you take photos of crime scenes?" John asked, climbing up the stairs.

"I don't. Anderson stole these ones for me."

"Anderson? My god, have you replaced me with _Anderson_?" John asked, more amused then hurt. The thought was so bizarre that made him want to giggle.

They stepped into the sitting room, and Sherlock turned to John, looking at him as if he was the most stupid human being on Earth.

"Don't be stupid, you could never be replaced, even if I was trying," he said, dismissively.

It took John completely by surprise, not only the words, but the tone implied, as if it had been obvious all along. He tried to wrap his head around it, but it seemed impossible. It had probably been the kindest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.

John looked up and noticed that Sherlock had stepped upon a chair and was looking for something between his books.

John wanted to know what _that_ was about, but he could only think that apparently he was irreplaceable.

Sherlock stepped down from the chair holding a little box.

John looked at the empty spot where his chair used to be. He felt bold.

"I'm _irreplaceable_, then?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the little box to John's. "Yes."

"But I am... _deletable_?"

Sherlock frowned at him. John just stared back.

Sherlock looked around and scowled. "No, you are not. And I would know, I've tried."

John thought that being punched in the face hurt less than that. Sherlock had tried to delete him, after everything. John asked himself what the fuck had he done to deserve _that_.

"Don't be a hypocrite," Sherlock sounded angry. _Angry at John_, which had never been usual. "How many times have you wished you had never met me?"

"Well, I was not the one who-," John stopped himself.

"Yes, finish it, will you? You were not the one who was wrong, so you can wish all you want, of course. I'm sorry, I _am_ sorry. Does it matter? No."

He had started pacing, holding the little box in one of his hands, while the broken one cut the air in sharp gestures.

"Look at us both, best friends wishing they had never met," he said, and cleared his throat.

John watched as Sherlock put his cold distant mask on again and felt himself getting hysterical with it. What the fuck had he been thinking anyway? It hurt to admit, but Sherlock was right, John had wished more than once that he had never met him. The worst of all was that he could not imagine that. He would never prefer a life without the insufferable man in front of him. Given a thousand possibilities, John would always choose to meet him.

_No_, he thought, the _worst_ of it was that he was never going to say that to Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed the box in John's hand. "I brought you here to ask if this is adequate to Mrs Hudson," he said, sounding uncomfortable. John absolutely hated it.

He opened the box because what he could do was to be _John_, Sherlock's friend, the one who translated social niceties to him.

They were pearl earrings.

"Are these genuine?" He asked, startled.

"Yes, are they wrong?"

"Wrong? No, of course not, she is going to love them, I'm sure of it. This is very nice of you," John said honestly.

Sherlock shrugged and took the box back, walking out of the door and leaving John to follow. "She deserves them, she puts up with me."

It felt almost like a jab from a knife to John's heart. He knew it hadn't been Sherlock's intention, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe Sherlock thought that John simply didn't _want_ to _put up_ with him anymore. Maybe now John featured in the list of people that had deserted him in some way. And he couldn't understand, he hadn't been the one doing the leaving.

But before John could think of anything to say, the two of them had reached Mrs Hudson's sitting room and the table was already being set.

"Sherlock," Mrs Reid approached him as soon as he entered the room. "Martha also told be about those terrible bullies who came here looking for something and assaulted her!" She shook her head. "What was that? Some kind of mob?"

"Close enough, Mrs Read. CIA," Sherlock smirked.

"Call me Lou, please," she patted his shoulder. "But I don't remember reading that on your blog, John."

"Oh, you know how it goes... National secret, I couldn't disclose it to the public."

"Of course, I understand," Mrs Reid – no, _Lou_ – said. "I'm sure you two taught them a lesson."

John snorted. "Sherlock threw the guy out of the window after beating him to a pulp."

"Well done," Mrs Reid approved. "That was around the time of that mysterious post about The Woman," she mused.

John was impressed. She not only knew his posts by heart, but could remember their order. She had an amazing memory for someone of her age. John doubted anyone else knew his blog like that.

Sherlock looked at John willing him to give an explanation for all of that, as if he had given a heads up to Mrs Reid.

John lifted his hands in a defence gesture. "Hey, she is your fan."

"No, she is your fan," Sherlock retorted.

"I'm a fan of you both," she patted their cheeks. It really was like being a boy sometimes. "You complement each other's skills, we can tell," she said, simply.

She had already walked to the kitchen to continue bringing the food to the table and Sherlock and John were left in the sitting room feeling awkward and averting each other's eyes.

* * *

**I have to thank Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this. **

******If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com** or leave me a message!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary:**

**_"Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. Best friends who wished they had never met. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes._**

**_And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really wanted that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him."_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 9**

Mrs Hudson's cooking was delicious, of course. They tried to keep the conversation going, but the truth was that Mary was too busy delighting herself with the food. Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid were paying too much attention to the wine.

John and Sherlock were too quiet.

John envied Sherlock for his crazy eating patterns. Nobody had batted an eyelash at his mostly untouched food, but John had to eat all of his not to raise any suspicion. It was delicious, but his throat was still clogged with his and Sherlock's earlier altercation.

Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. _Best friends who wished they had never met_. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes.

And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really _wanted_ that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him.

And he didn't have the tiniest wish to know. What John was now was a direct result to what Sherlock had meant to him, of what he still meant. And John had been hurt, it was true. In more ways than he cared to analyse, he was a broken man as a result of Sherlock's direct actions, but he wouldn't change that. John was also a capable doctor, had access to all the adrenaline he needed and, most important, was the best friend of the most extraordinary human being on Earth.

If Sherlock thought for a second that all the times John had wished that, John had really meant it, then John had to work on that. He had no idea how, but he had to. Sherlock was a high-functioning sociopath, but John wasn't wasn't good at having heart to hearts, either. He had the feeling that when it came down to one another, both of them were emotionally stunted. He asked himself why that would be.

John lifted his eyes from his plate and fixed them on Sherlock, who was sat right in front of him, talking to Mrs. Reid about one of his experiments.

He couldn't forget her words either. She had been absolutely right.

Jokes about he and Sherlock being a couple aside, the truth was that Sherlock was one of the people John loved most in the world. Years ago, when all that happened, Sherlock and John had been living a co-dependent life, sharing bills and work, tea and crap telly. And all that had been ripped off him in a second.

He didn't think Mrs Reid would understand, but it hadn't been like losing a husband or a wife, in any way. It had been like losing a limb, an oxygen flask.

John brought his hands to his lap and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. He took his glass of wine and washed down the bitterness that always came with those thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock again. Sherlock, who was right in front of him, even after being dead for two years.

John had been given a second chance. Something Mrs Reid and many others – everyone who wasn't dealing with Sherlock Holmes, for that matter – would never have.

In John's case, his limb had been reattached, his oxygen flask had been refilled. He was sharing a meal with his whole family in a way he hadn't experienced before. And he had Sherlock to thank for, in a way. Even if John had brought Mary to have dinner, it wouldn't have been the same if Sherlock had really been dead.

Sherlock had heard him. He had never made a habit out of it, but he had done it, for once.

When John came back to himself, Sherlock was staring at him. He wanted to ask _'What?'_, but knew it was one of those times Sherlock would just stare at him and then not answer when John asked what that was about. John just continued looking at him, and took another sip of his wine to give himself something to do.

"We've been missing new posts on your blog, John," Mrs Reid said, out of the blue, startling John. He didn't know what to answer to that. He missed them too.

"Care to share some new cases with us, Sherlock?" She asked.

John looked at him with interest. He, too, wanted to know.

Sherlock cleared his throat and smiled a little, awkwardly. "There's been nothing interesting these weeks."

"Oh, I'm sure there's something," Mrs Reid tutted. The wine had left her even more expansive. "Your cases are always so thrilling."

Sherlock smiled more openly. "That's because you know them through John's eyes. He tended to romanticize things a bit. But then, you know, he has always been a romantic." He looked at Mary and winked at her.

"You're the drama queen," John retorted. And, okay, maybe he was being a bit childish. Just a bit.

Sherlock looked at him, indignant. "I'm tall, my presence is naturally impressive," he huffed.

John feigned outrage. "What is that supposed to mean? I'm tall enough."

"God, these two, honestly," Mrs Hudson scolded while Mary giggled at John's face and Mrs Reid watched everything with mirth in her eyes. "It's like having overgrown kids around."

"Not too overgrown, in John's case," Sherlock pointed out, and Mary let out a loud laughter. John was going to have words with her about that.

He did what any respectable ex-army doctor would have done in that situation. He kicked Sherlock's shin under the table.

"Ow," Sherlock cried out. "Really? Very mature, John, very."

"You're the one to talk."

"Boys, please, behave," Mary managed to find some words in the middle of her giggle fit.

John looked at her and snorted, but tried to keep himself from laughing.

How could he go from broken soldier to happy schoolboy in seconds around Sherlock was something he would never understand. He looked at the man across from him again and could swear he was thinking the same thing. That was probably why they were best friends who had wished they had never met, but would never leave each other alone.

"Ah, this is so nice," Mrs Reid was saying. "I didn't imagine you would be so fun to have around."

Sherlock smiled at her. "We aren't. We're on our best behaviour for Mrs Hudson's birthday, and I was just kicked, so I don't know about that either."

Mrs Hudson tutted. "They _are_ lovely, Lou, I told you," Mrs Hudson patted her sister's hand. "She worries about me being here alone. But I always tell her, I'm not alone."

"Of course not," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock can drive anyone around the bend, of course," she said, looking pointedly at him, "But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything."

John was so fucking glad for that plural that he couldn't contain his smile if he wanted.

Sherlock chose this moment to slide the little box on the table to Mrs Hudson, who just stared back at him. He smiled awkwardly at her and made a vague motion with his hand, willing her to open the present.

"Happy birthday," he said quietly.

John asked himself why Sherlock had chosen that moment to give her the present if he was so embarrassed by it, but the truth was that Sherlock was probably trying to escape the heart-to-heart conversation that would surely follow the gift.

She finally took the box, opened it, and gasped at the view of the earrings. "Sherlock," she said, simply. John could see that her eyes were wet. "I can't accept this present, it's too much."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at her. He cleared his throat. "My mother says you women always like pearls, so I thought these would fit. John tells me they are right, so there, they are yours."

"They are gorgeous, dear, thank you," Mrs Hudson said, standing up and coming over to Sherlock so she could give him an awkward hug, since he was still sitting.

Mrs Reid and Mary were talking quietly about how beautiful the earrings were, but John could not tear his eyes away from Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. His heart tugged quite painfully in his chest and for the life of him, John couldn't tell why.

* * *

After the pudding, they were still at the table, talking about some of Sherlock's old cases. Mrs Reid's excitement didn't seem to be wearing off and the never ending supply of wine left the two sisters more agreeable.

Sherlock and John had just retold her the case of Henry and the gigantic hound, and Mrs Reid was staring at them both with wide eyes. John had to admit that he had missed that. Sherlock, for all his love for the dramatic, was never really fond of the general public – which made John feel a bit guilty after the press had been used to destroy his reputation. But the truth was that John liked seeing Sherlock being acknowledged for the job he had invented and the work at which he was the best in the world.

After being quiet for some time, Mrs Hudson let out a contented sigh. "It's really good to have you here," she said, looking at John. "Sherlock gets very lonely here without you," she said, hiding her mouth from the other guests, but without really bothering to low her voice.

John looked intently at Sherlock, who just rolled his eyes.

"There was enough wine for today, Mrs Hudson," he said, without looking at John.

Mrs Hudson ignored him and continued to talk to the others. "I can't imagine how he lived without us before, you know" she shook her head. She looked at John reproachfully. "You, young man, can't just be a stranger like this."

John felt properly scolded. He knew Mrs Hudson was more than a bit drunk, but he knew she meant every single word. Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

Mrs Hudson turned to her sister. "He took John's chair out of the living room, have I told you that? So sad. Who does that, really?"

John looked at Mrs Hudson in a different light. It was almost as if she was saying...

But she was drunk and, although she was one of the closest people to Sherlock, she couldn't know what went on in that head of his.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, buttoning his jacket. "Isn't it time to be calling it a night?"

"Why don't you and John go do the washing up?" Mary intervened. John was glad for it, although he couldn't imagine Sherlock washing anything _ever_.

"Mary is absolutely right, you two should go. I have a million wedding things to ask her and you would just get in our way," Mrs Reid said, while taking Mrs Hudson's glass out of her reach.

It surprised John that for once in his life Sherlock didn't complain about being told what to do. He grabbed as many plates as he could with one hand and waited for John to bring the rest of the tableware to the kitchen.

He couldn't really help to do the washing, since he was still in the cast, so he took his place at John's right side and dried what he could with one hand.

They worked silently. John kept trying to find just the exact words to apologize without making Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

Sherlock groaned. "It's physically painful for me watching you think. Say it at once," he said, arrogantly, not looking at John.

"She's right, you know," John said, simply. Sherlock looked sideways at him, but didn't say anything. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock placed the plate he was holding on the drying rack. "John..."

"No, just... It's true, I'm sorry. And for earlier too," John turned off the water and dried his hands on the dishcloth. He sighed and turned fully to Sherlock. "I've never wished—"

Sherlock huffed.

"I _never_ really wished to not have met you. I thought that, but it's not something I could really wish. Did you?" John felt stupid for asking because Sherlock had actually tried to do it, had gotten rid of all John's things.

Sherlock took another plate and started drying it slowly. He cleared his throat without once looking at John. "No," he answered, still rubbing the cloth on the plate. It was a dull movement, something to prevent him from being too exposed. John was used to this.

"Sherlock," John said, grabbing the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock left the plate on the sink and finally, finally, looked at him. His eyes were mostly green, blindingly bright. "All this, we have to stop."

Sherlock sighed and tugged at his hair. "I don't know _how_, John. I'm trying!"

"I know," John tried to soothe him. It was the truth, John knew that. John had been paralysed, trying to stay away and protect himself from all the pain Sherlock had the power to inflict upon him.

"It's not my fault you are having nightmares again," Sherlock said, quietly, because of course he had deduced that.

John sighed. He leaned back on the sink and looked at the wall in front of him. "It is, you know. It really, _really_ is," he said, not accusingly, just sadly.

Sherlock stared at the side of John's face for a good minute. John could listen only to the sound of their breathing. It suddenly felt as if the whole building, the whole street and the whole city were completely empty but for them.

"Oh," Sherlock let out, finally. John wanted to ask how had he _not_ known this. But of course he hadn't. Apparently Sherlock was always underestimating his place in other people's lives.

John cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter. You can't change that, I know this... I just..." John trailed off, unsure of what to say. He just _what_? Thought he could continue to push them apart and be okay with that? Took it out on Sherlock the fact that his mind couldn't deal with him?

"Well, I can't now, my hand is broken," Sherlock muttered. John didn't know if he was aware he had said it at all.

"What does that have to do with anything?" He asked.

"When you listen to the violin as you're just about to enter your REM sleep, your dreams are less violent. After a week or two of daily violin sessions, the nightmares are bound to stop if you aren't met with other triggers," Sherlock explained.

_You're my trigger,_ John thought_. _He looked sideways at Sherlock and knew that he didn't have to say it out loud to be heard. Sherlock looked at his own feet. "How do you know this works?"

The right corner of Sherlock's lips turned slightly up. "Experiment," he said simply.

John felt a burst of warmth invade his chest. "You used to monitor my nightmares, didn't you?"

"Not good?"

"No... It's fine," John snorted. It was actually absolutely, _incredibly_ fine. He couldn't explain how fine it was.

"I just wanted to know exactly when to begin playing. It worked. It works," he corrected himself. His eyes went distant for a moment. "But anyway, I can't play the violin and you don't live here anymore. So..." he shrugged.

It was the truth, simple statements of the truth, but John couldn't help hate it. Sherlock had taken care of him when nobody was watching, just as John had done. John asked himself vaguely if Sherlock was feeling the same hollowness in his heart that John was experiencing.

John turned to the sink again and turned on the water to fill the sudden silence with something. He planted his hands on the sink and looked at his feet, sighing heavily. "This, all this," he said, motioning vaguely around him, "Us, I miss it."

"You headbutted me last time I implied that."

"I miss _everything_," John said, turning to him fully.

John wanted to explain that he didn't just miss the thrill of the chase and to be sided with Sherlock against the world. He missed the violin and the tea. He missed watching Sherlock while he spoiled every single thing they tried to watch on the telly. John wished he could list all the little things he randomly remembered during the day and that made his heart sink with a bitter sense of longing.

He wished he could tell Sherlock about how missing him didn't mean he didn't hate everything sometimes, that it actually made everything hurt worse.

Sherlock looked at him as someone who had no idea of what to say. He tucked one his hands in his pockets while the broken one hung awkwardly along his body, and leaned on the sink. "I do, too. Miss, I mean. You."

Sherlock was rarely inarticulate like this. It was the best sign to John that he was telling the truth.

John started to wash another plate, but touched his shoulder to Sherlock's side. "Maybe it won't be like before, but everything that will come now, I want you in it," John nudged him lightly. He knew he was being almost delusional, that things wouldn't be easier just because he had said the words. There would be pain and awkwardness and he would feel absent and lost, but he had to try. "Do you get it?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"Good," John said, with his throat tight.

* * *

An hour later, they were all reunited in Mrs Hudson's living room, saying their goodbyes after what ended up being a great night. John was still feeling the buzz Sherlock's words had left in his ear. He looked at him while he hugged Mary and thought about how he wished to listen to Sherlock's violin again. He couldn't help the melancholy at that thought. It wouldn't be the same thing.

Mrs Reid hugged him tightly, patting his cheek and complementing his writing skills once more. She demanded to know about any new cases immediately and told them that the fans missed them. _They aren't the only ones_, John thought, and once more, he was sure Sherlock had listened. He was presented with one of his little secretive smiles.

Mrs Hudson told him in no uncertain terms that he ought to come by more frequently. Hugging Mary, she told her to force John to come visit. Mary winked at him knowingly. He was sure he wouldn't hear the end of it, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to be forced to do anything.

Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Reid walked to the door, exchanging numbers and talking about the wedding. They said their goodbyes with a promise that Mrs Reid would surely be on the guest list of their wedding. Obviously.

John and Sherlock ended up alone in the hallway for a moment.

"You never got to show me those crime scene photos, after all," John said, and smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. It was a good a view. "You could come by tomorrow to see them, if you'd like. I'd like you to."

"Yes, sounds good," John said while they walked to the door.

"Good," Sherlock answered.

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid had already said their last goodbyes to Mary and John and went back to Mrs Hudson's. Mary was flagging a cab.

"Good night, John", Sherlock said, awkwardly. John could swear there was a bit of reluctance in his tone, or maybe it was just the echo of his own feelings. It was still strange to leave 221B. He asked himself if he was ever going to get used to it.

He wouldn't know what led him to do it, but John lifted his left hand and squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck lightly, surprising both of them. Before he could stop himself, he rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin, thinking that Sherlock had absolutely no right to feel that warm in February.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, letting his hand fall on his side. He could still feel the warmth in them. The sudden burning made him want to fidget. He flexed his fingers instinctively.

"Yes," Sherlock said and his voice seemed strained, but John didn't trust himself to look at him again. He was afraid he would do something crazy like trying to hug Sherlock or something like that.

John closed the door behind him and walked over to the cab that was pulling over. He fought back the urge to stare at the door uselessly.

* * *

**I gave up having one certain day of the week to update this. real life gets in the way. so I'll try to update every week, but it will be a surprise! sorry for that, but it's the best I can do :D**

**As always, thanks to my beta.. And you - yeah, you - come talk to me on tumblr about this plot! (it's on my profile page here)**


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